


Grown on me

by ThunderBot



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bets & Wagers, Breaking Up & Making Up, Domestic Violence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Guilty Pleasures, Internal Conflict, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-04-13 16:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 174,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14116227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderBot/pseuds/ThunderBot
Summary: He was an elven mage; neither Dalish nor taught by any of the Circles. She was a determined apprentice of the keeper in her tribe; brought up with ancient elven traditions. What begins as curiosity blossoms into a keen friendship. The problem arises when they realize that there is something more.





	1. I believe introductions are in order

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Grown on me](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/366729) by Me (but I chose to be anonymous). 



> English is not my first language, so bear with me;)
> 
> It all started when I found this prompt at livejournal.com back in 2015; Solas Friendship Turned Romance (link above). I decided then and there to fill it. I liked the idea, even though I never played the game as a female elf (which I of course had to do after writing this). The "Prompter" suggested that I'd post this story here, but back then I felt that one forum was good enough - especially since I just wrote for the sake of writing and hardly even spellchecked a chapter when I felt that I was done. When the fiction was moved to Dreamwidth.org, I lost contact with my "prompter", so with a little luck I'll find him or her here eventually. Maybe this will be the boost needed to actually finish the story, and I promise to have a look at spelling, grammar and placenames (had a tendency to clash a bit with Skyrim while writing this) before posting ;). 
> 
> Oh, and there have been a whole lot of changes - let's call it postwork. The same story, just minor changes.

Solas

The first time Solas saw the girl was when Cassandra found her in the ruins, just moments after the explosion. He did of course not yet know that the name of that bullheaded woman was Cassandra, nor that she was a Pentaghast. If he had, he might have approached the situation differently. He followed them from a distance, entered Haven without much thought, with a simple plan: he’d offer them his assistance. With a little luck, he could remove the mark from the girl and leave.  
Of course he was curious. Apparently, enough so to put him in a rather peculiar situation; in irons. Extremely frustrating, since he knew that he should have been more careful, especially after the explosion at the temple - he was after all considered an apostate. It didn’t take long though before Cassandra listened to his pleas. If the girl in the cell further in wasn’t tended for, that glowing scar in her hand would tear her apart, and with that the world. He managed to sound remarkably calm - at least in his own opinion - even though his heart was pounding hard in his chest. To his surprise - and relief - he was ordered to deal with it, but with two guards panting over his shoulder like a couple of rabid dogs. They unshackled him, opened the girl’s cell and let him in. He could only see the shape of something rather small laying sprawled out on the floor in the dark, so he had asked for a lantern.  
What he then saw made him hesitate. The girl wasn’t just some child who’d managed to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, she was a young elven woman. Yes, Solas was surprised, but not because of her race. At first glance, she could have been a shadow of a lost era, but when he looked closely upon her face, he realized that he had been startled without reason. This girl was Dalish. Sure, she probably had a charming personality, and maybe there was beauty in a sense. Sunkissed skin from a life in the wild; blonde, almost white hair braided back from a rather prominent forehead; a regal, high-bridged nose and a mouth that was a bit too wide. Ah well, at least her ears looked elven.  
The longer he stayed with her though, the more used he got to that face. After a day he even thought she might have been considered a beauty in another time. Unconventional, but still. Was it not for that hideous Vallaslin, of course. She belonged to Dirthamen. Or, as he’d come to understand it during his year of travels, she had chosen Dirthamen. He wasn’t sure of how he would interpret that, considering...  
If a face really mattered. She was weak, that was the point. After all, the girl was elven; he had thought that the mark on her hand would react differently. He’d been of the impression that even though there were generations between the Elvhen of his time and the diminutive form “his People” had derogated to, there would at least have been some biological semblance. To think her people once had lived with one foot in the material world and one in the Fade was almost inconceivable. A minor clash and she was on the brink of death. He needed her alive, or all his efforts would be in vain, a long lifetime of planning and this was how it would end?  
And while he tried to remove the mark from the girl’s hand without tearing her apart, Cassandra was stomping around, looking a lot like an enraged form of Justice. Solas knew better though; the spirits following Cassandra were all related to Faith. He had to tread carefully to not awaken the beasts her temper was aligned with.  
For days he tended for this nameless girl, asked the spirits for help to keep her live, but she was difficult. Her spirit was strongly tied to the Void. This made him slightly curious; if her spirit was about to leave her, why was she alive at all? Because she wasn’t dead yet. From the looks of things he doubted that she would wake up again. Her breath was uneven and shallow, her skin cold as ice. He needed the mark to close the rift, but in her hand it didn’t make much of a difference. This girl might have taken what was rightfully his, but from the looks of it, the power from the blast had rendered her completely useless. 

Now, three days later, he was still baffled by the fact that he didn’t know what to make out of it all, but he wasn’t studying her with his heart pounding with panic anymore. His theory might actually work. She was weaker than he’d expected, yes. Was the veil to blame for that too, or…  
“For your sake I hope you’ve found something.” Cassandra’s voice echoed like a whiplash through the damp prison before he heard her feet against the floor. A steady, determined stomp which he’d associated with the nervous flutter in his stomach that always followed. Yet again he found doubt a harsh companion. He rose from the cell floor and met Cassandra. Confidence. She responded well to confidence. Solas straightened his back and collected himself, took a deep breath through his nose before speaking.  
“I think I’ve come to a solution, yes”, he replied calmly. “When she wakes up, bring her to the smaller rift in the hills. If this works, we might be able to close the Breach for good. I’m going ahead.” If she wakes up. There was nothing more he could do for her. This rift was his last chance, and if that didn’t work… well, he could always run.  
Cassandra snorted. “As if I would let an apostate roam freely…”  
“I know that you don’t trust me, seeker, but I need to examine…” Solas clutched his hands to stay calm.  
“Not a chance.” Cassandra was just about to turn around and leave, but gave him one last look and stopped. “Guards, put the apostate back in his cell. He is just wasting our time.”  
Solas sighed. “It is not in my interest to flee, you should know that by now. I came here willingly.” He met her glance, could read her face as easily as if she’d been a book. The doubt was following in her footsteps too, the difference was that she had her sword and wasn’t afraid to use it. She had powerful spirits, they could turn into powerful demons, and he didn’t want to know how far she could go before her temper cooled down.  
Luckily, she kept her fury in a short leash. Instead of letting it all free, she nodded, upon which Solas felt the knot in his stomach loosen.  
“You are still an apostate, Solas. If you break my trust I will hunt you down.” Cassandra gave him one last long glare before she spun around on her heel and left. He knew she was telling the truth.

Varric. Sure, Solas didn’t mind his company, but for what reason had Cassandra decided to send two of her three prisoners together with a group of templars to handle something as unorthodox as a rift in the veil? There was only one answer to that. They would either prove themselves useful or die trying. A swift way to get rid of two uncomfortable bumps in the road. Hopefully his theory would prove him right. The rift and the mark on the girl’s hand were clearly connected, and if he had the fourth-dimensional raster correctly figured out... at least it supported antialiasing and in order to form a close approximation, the variables would…  
“So Chuckles, what about the girl?”  
Solas was abruptly thrown back to the present. “Excuse me?”  
A rather disturbing present, with himself walking midst a circle of templars beside a rather suspicious dwarf along a road that in places was nothing more than distant aspirations of what it once could have been. Dead mages, dead soldiers, strewn along the sides as if they’d been seeds, blood splattered all over the stone paved path.  
“The girl!” Varric grinned and offered him a rather insinuative wink. “You know, the one you’ve been hanging out with for the last few days.”  
“Oh. Her.” Solas cleared his throat. “If my calculations are correct, she would, hypothetically, be able to close the Breach.” He really hoped so, if nothing else she could at least make it stop growing.  
“You spent all that time in her cell just to…” Varric never ended the sentence, there was just a hearty laughter that made his entire body shake.  
“I did everything in my power to heal her, Varric”, Solas explained calmly, ignoring what the dwarf was suggesting, “the mark on her hand is slowly ripping her to pieces.”  
“Sure! Your reasons are your own.” Varric didn’t sound convinced though, and there was a humored glint in his eyes. 

 

Dirthara

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you right now.”  
The seeker’s words kept on ringing in Dirthara’s ears, echoed through the pain in her hand and the fear that made her stomach turn long after the immediate threat in some mysterious way had fled. Cassandra wasn't threatening to end her miserable life anymore, instead she acted as if they had been fighting by eachother's sides for years. A flip that caused Dirthara to wonder what she had done or said to brighten that scary woman's day. Not that her hope was long-lasting; the confusion made her uncertain of what was true and what was false. Especially since she couldn’t remember. Everyone was dead, that was what she'd heard, was she to blame? She didn't think so, but what if... She had done horrible things... As she ran over ice and snow, slipping in the slush on the roads with the seeker just steps behind her and the staff on her back, she gave the glowing mark on her hand another glance. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t remember ever reading about anything like this. A sickly green glow, the skin on each side of the mark stretching with a soaring pain that made her crumble to her knees every time the Breach in the sky shifted. They said she had fallen out of it, alive and unharmed - with one exception. For some reason she had brought a piece of it with her.  
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now.”  
Dirthara didn’t even recall what she out of panic had answered. She wasn’t ready to die, not yet, not now when she finally had left her guilt behind and was on her path to turn it all around. Still, as they walked outside and Cassandra took the lead, she was starting to doubt. The world had changed. If the Keeper back in Clan Lavellan was right, this was something that might spread throughout the lands, destruction, chaos and mayhem in its wake. What once had been deceitfully calm lands, had swiftly turned into a war zone, and in the midst of it all a green glow reaching towards the sky. In retrospect, she could have acted differently if she’d known what to expect. When she left Haven, the massacre and ruin was thrown in her face with such violence that the sheer sight of it made her gasp for breath and wonder how she could prove herself innocent in a world that had lost all logic. It would have been easier to just fade away, was it not for the responsibility resting on her shoulders. Its weight had been a heavy burden before, but was now what lifted her up. She couldn't go back and change it all, so she had to do it right. Dirthara had to endure, if not for herself, then at least for her people, and for... She would try, the outcome couldn’t be worse than it already ws.

And she had never seen the Dales. Not for real. If she survived this chaos...

So she ran, through the utter chaos, without knowing where or towards what end, heart pounding, legs shaking, adrenaline rushing through her veins. She fought like she’d never fought before against things she’d never even dreamt of in her darkest nightmares. Demons, shades, horrors that made her wonder if she really ever was prepared for anything but healing minor wounds or preserving food.

Then, as a beacon of hope, she saw life. The first trace of it since they left the main road. An elf and a dwarf fighting alongside templars just ahead. She threw herself head first into the battle, eager to make a difference, to prove something. She never was a fighter, the spells she had learnt were weak and mainly used to light a hearth, but she didn’t have anything else at her disposal. It would have to suffice, but the force she needed to muster out of her battered body made her light-headed, the sweat poured and she was panting as if she had been running for miles. The other elf, a mage too, used ice, and the air was tingling around him as he calmly threw the spells. Powerful, but controlled; Dirthara had to focus hard to even get close to match the strength of his spells. Fire and ice turned out to be a fruitful combination though.  
Cassandra was a whirlwind with sharp edges, taunting the demons as she ran towards them with her shield lifted. The dwarf laughed out loud when the female warrior rushed past him.  
“Seeker! I’ve never been so happy to see you!” he shouted after her before nocking a new bolt on his crossbow. His words were only responded with an inarticulated combination of grunts that sounded a lot like curses.  
And suddenly, a moment to breathe. The rift pulsating with light above Dirthara’s head, but nothing pouring out of it. For just a moment, silence. She exhaled and was about to fall to her knees with exhaustion when a strong hand grabbed her by the wrist. The elf. She winced, his grip was too hard, but he didn’t seem to neither notice nor care. Instead he moved forward, pulling her with him. She stumbled after with a surprised yelp, and when he lifted her hand towards the rift she almost thought he'd jerked her limb off by the joints. His face bore nothing but concentration, determination. Everything that followed happened so fast. His grip around her arm lightened, or at least it felt like it did, the moment something in the fade connected with the scar in her hand. Maybe it was just a lighter touch by comparison; it felt like everything being her was forcefully pulled out of her body into the rift, her hand just the link. The thought that rushed through her mind; "I am merely a tool"; was chased away by the scorching pain when the energy from the fade raced through her every nerve like water escaping a broken dam.  
Then nothing. It ended as abruptly as it started.  
Dirthara inhaled quickly and pulled her hand out of the elf’s grasp. Her head was spinning, every muscle aching, and yet the only thing she managed to do was to rub her wrist while studying him. She was focused enough to notice a thing or two, but most of her concentration was spent on staying on her feet. The elf bore no Vallaslin, but had not the abject posture of a city elf. A mage, but obviously not one of the circle. “What did you do?” she asked, not sure of how to address him.  
“I did nothing.” A soft smile reflected in his eyes. “The credit is yours.”  
At the same time he looked so pleased that she realized their chance for survival had been an even thinner margin than she had believed. He had a theory, she was the tool, the theory had been correct. Or, as he expressed it:  
“You are the key to our salvation.”

A purpose.

 

Solas

Her name was Dirthara. A coincidence, or did her name have importance?  
“Seeker of truth”, Solas translated with a furrowed brow, which was directly followed by another explosion of laughter. Varric, of course.  
“Did you hear that Cassandra?” the dwarf clamored, “You two have a lot in common!”  
“Hmph.” Cassandra offered Varric a glare that could have set him on fire if he hadn’t been of such a sturdy material. The young elf, on the other hand, was beyond confusion. Solas didn’t judge her, in fact he could have kicked himself for not having her innocence in mind. He had already come to the conclusion that she was young, therefore inexperienced, but beyond that she was obviously Dalish (which in his mind was close to being mentally impaired). Being thrown into this mess would have been stressful even for the seasoned warrior.  
She had surprised him though. A mage. Too young to be a Keeper or a first, but maybe a second or a third? And despite this - hm, chaos was the only way he could describe it - she handled herself pretty well. A strong focus, her connection to the Fade a bright tingle. Maybe the elves hadn’t fallen so far as he had first anticipated. Maybe they were worth saving.

And as the day progressed, she persisted to surprise him. Quiet at first, but after a while came speculating questions followed by more questions. She wanted to understand the fade, figure out what had happened, not just accept the situation. When they reached the Breach, she seemed calmer, more confident and her blue eyes showed focus harder than steel. She knew what to do.  
“So, how about it, Chuckles?” Varric muttered when Dirthara hurried ahead with Cassandra in her heels.  
“How about what?” Solas asked distant mindedly, already lost in his studies of the huge green Breach; already calculating their odds.  
Varric grunted. “The elven girl.”  
“What about her?” Solas looked down at the dwarf, very well aware of what Varric was talking about. He wasn’t even going to play with the thought, wouldn’t give the dwarf that satisfaction.  
“Are you always this oblivious?” Varric made a wide gesture with his hands.  
Solas frowned and shook his head. “Varric, whatever it is you’re referring to, it can wait. Our priority is the Breach.”


	2. Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, realized that I didn't mention an original character earlier. If you spot the redheaded assassin, he's my Inkie ;)

Solas

A knock on the door, a quick hard tap. From the sound of it, a small hand. Solas looked up from the book he was reading, waited without making an effort to even think of moving in that direction. Hopefully, whoever that was, he or she would leave him alone within moments.  
...Or not. This time the knock was a loud bang, someone using the entire palm of the hand. It echoed through the room, made the hinges and the lock rattle. At this hour? Solas gave his book a longing glance, closed it with a snap and stood up from the chair by the desk.  
If this wasn’t important...  
His bare feet moved softly over the creaking floor, the wood warm and smooth against his soles. The fire in the hearth had almost burned out, just the embers were glowing in the dim light.  
Solas opened the door, not certain of what to expect, but ready to tell whoever it concerned to kindly sod off. In the most respectable way, of course. He was usually left alone, to his great relief. What he expected least of all though, was Dirthara, but there she was. The words that had waited on his tongue were hastily forgotten. She just stood there, shivering in the snow in a pair of boots that looked at least three sizes too large. Solas realized that he hadn’t seen her since they returned to Haven, vaguely remembered hearing that she’d been asleep for the last couple of days. He wasn’t surprised; the Breach had taken its toll. Sure, the girl was stubborn as a mule - beyond what was intelligent, Solas would point out - but she couldn’t close it. To weak. Her focus had stayed stable, but she ran out of mana way too quickly.  
But that was then and this was now. The young woman was apparently up and about. She was cold, not properly dressed for this harsh climate. Shoulders lifted, hands in her armpits and the smoke escaping her mouth in thick clouds. Her head was turned to the side, eyes searching in the distance and her feet were dancing in the ankle deep snow as if they were living a life of their own to a beat he couldn’t hear. She must have left in a hurry.  
Again: at this time of night? Of course he was curious, what on Thedas was she doing here? “Ah, the Chosen of Andraste, our blessed hero sent to save us all”, he stated calmly. “What can I do for you?”  
“Dashing and slightly unnerving.” Dirthara turned her face towards him, a quick smile when their eyes met.  
“It seems I’ve lost some privacy, due to… unavoidable circumstances.” She spoke fast, but her voice was deep and calm. “You don’t happen to have some that I can borrow?”  
Solas was so perplexed by her words that he couldn’t hold back a snicker. He opened the door further and took a step to the side. “Sadly, I’m completely out.”  
“Yeah, At least now you are.” The young woman stomped the snow off her feet and was just about to walk through the door when her eyes were fixed on the book in his hand. Instead she took a step back. “Oh.”  
“The book is closed, but the door is open.” Solas studied her face, yet again surprised. Firstly, because she was observant enough to see that he had been reading, secondly because she was thoughtful enough to consider that he might prefer the company of his book rather than hers. She wouldn’t be here without a good reason though, he realized. They were hardly friends, acquaintances maybe. He didn’t have to let her in, but something told him that he should and not for his own sake.  
“We can talk some other time.” She turned her head again, stretched her neck and squinted through the dusk towards the gates.  
Solas chuckled. “You disturbed my peace for nothing?”  
“Well, when you put it that way”, Dirthara murmured, still spying for something in the distance. She stomped the snow off her feet once more and this time she entered. Solas closed the door behind her, and didn’t notice until then that the wind had been howling. The silence indoors became a pressing matter of disturbance. Dirthara cleared her throat, eyes darting around the room but not out of curiosity. Her hands were still tucked neatly in her armpits and her cheeks were red. Was it that cold? Solas turned around, crouched down by the hearth and stacked some firewood on top of the embers.  
“You did not come here to just stand in the door, I presume.”  
“For my purpose, it’s effective; I give you that, but no.” Dirthara stepped out of her boots. A puddle was slowly forming around them. “I was thinking, and that made me curious. About you.”  
Solas felt his entire body tense up. ”Why?”  
“You’re an elf and a mage.” She moved silently, only the creaky floorboard gave her away when she passed just behind his back. Another trace from a life in the wild. “Yet you have chosen a life between communities.”  
“A choice which grants me freedom”, Solas stated calmly while staring into the fire as it slowly rose higher, flames of yellow and red licking the wood before devouring it.  
Dirthara sat down on the floor beside him, stretched her legs towards the fire and wiggled her toes. They were red from the cold. “How can you know so much about the veil without the proper education?” she murmured, which made Solas believe she was staring into the fire too. The way she spoke had that beat to it, as if her mind was wandering. Her head leaving her cold body behind. It was slowly getting warmer, but the young woman by his side was still huddled up in her lonely embrace.  
“I’ve journeyed deep into the fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations”, Solas replied, stood up from the floor and walked towards the bed. A plaid was casually thrown over the footboard. He grabbed it and returned to the fire. “I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.” Before he sat down again, he dropped the plaid in Dirthara’s lap. “You should have worn a coat.”  
She reached for the blanket and wrapped it around her with a shiver. “We’re here now and that’s what matters”, she replied with a snap. She wasn’t ungrateful of his gesture, that wasn’t it. She was just young enough to think she knew everything. That was, at least what Solas believed, until she spoke again:  
“I’ve noticed that the veil is thin here.”  
Her words made Solas blink and turn his head.  
“You’re a mage”, he observed, reminding himself about how he had watched her handle her spells when they closed the Breach. “Too young to be a keeper, and yet…”  
“I’m the First.” Dirthara shrugged it off as if it was nothing, but her posture was proud. As well as she should be, that was a difficult position to reach. It explained a thing or two though. He would still propose that she was too young and inexperienced, but it wasn’t his call.  
She stretched her feet closer to the fire. “You fascinate with anecdotes and even more without your words; your bond is far beyond a shallow feeling. ‘Connection with the Fade’, they said, ‘the strength of mind, the focus gain, are only given those with precise guidance’...” She paused and turned her head. “And yet, here you are. A hedge mage with knowledge of traditional elven strategies.”  
An uncomfortable question, even though it wasn’t stated as one. “Ah. The seeker of truth decided to solve the case of the self taught apostate. How original.”  
Dirthara frowned. “Haven’t you noticed? We’re all apostates now.”  
A cold silence fell over the room, and Solas felt compelled to give her some kind of an explanation just to ease the tension:  
“It’s a compelling story of murder and deceit”, he began, then paused and sighed. “Or rather, I was born in a small village to the north. There wasn’t much to do for a young elven boy but dreaming.” It wasn’t a complete lie.  
“A shemlen, hmm?” Dirthara gave him a quick glance, then snorted. “You didn’t fall in with the wrong crowd, experimenting with elfroot, I hear.”  
“Elfroot.” Solas chuckled and turned his head. Her concentration was back at the fire, and he grabbed the chance to study her profile. Proud, almost regal, her chin lifted in defiance. And yet there was something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Defeat? Yes, quite poetic, actually. A queen without a rule. “From the sound of it, you have some fascinating anecdotes yourself”, he added with a smirk.  
She hissed. “With not so preferable side effects.” If it was the reflection from the fire or a hint of mischief glistening in her eyes, Solas couldn’t tell the difference. He could feel the muscles in his face turn the smirk into a wolf like grin. Now, who doesn’t like a little bit of mischief?  
“Ha! The princess is a delinquent! I did not see that coming.”  
“Rather a delinquent than a dunce”, Dirthara replied, and Solas could see how the corners of her mouth rose.  
“Yes, of course. The Tevinter illusion of Dalish elves finds its truth somewhere. Teens, high on elfroot, dancing naked in the moonlight and singing to the flowers.” Solas lifted one eyebrow and met her glance when she turned her head to face him. “That would make you look like a dunce, now wouldn’t it?”  
Dirthara assumed an appalled stance and gasped. “I never! If I’d known that you were such a bastard…”  
“Yes?” Solas grinned from ear to ear.  
“Well, I would have you know that you are not invited to our next nightly session of dancing under the moon, that is for sure.”  
Solas sighed. “I am utterly disappointed. I was looking forward to see your indomitable focus - hmm, dominated.”  
“Indomitable focus?” Dirthara shook her head and laughed. “Oh, you’re wicked.”  
“What? I imagine the sight would be ...fascinating.” Solas remark was repaid with a rather bony elbow jammed in his side.  
“In all honesty, though.” Dirthara stretched her back and yawned. “I could use some practice. Is there a chance that you could find the time…?” She left the question hanging in the air between them. Ah, so there was a reason for her nightly visit after all. Good, he really disliked socializing for the sake of socializing itself.  
“I could give you a pointer or two”, he responded with a slight nod, “but first, I need something to eat.”  
Dirthara looked at him with amusement as he stood up from the floor. “You mean right now?”  
“Yes, why not?” Solas grabbed one of his jars of herbal tea and the pitcher of water from the table. “Do you like lavender tea?”

The next morning he woke up with a jolt. He was lying on the floor, and with her head resting on his belly, so did Dirthara. Still fast asleep and rolled up in the plaid, her pale blond hair a messy crown around her face. Thick, black eyelashes resting against her sun kissed cheeks. He hardly dared to move, but the floor was cold and the fire had burned out long ago. It didn't bother him much, not really, but he needed some space, some time, some privacy.  
She had followed him into his lucid dream, but in her presence the world took a different form. She changed everything - color, birds, the melting snow dripping from the roof of every house in Haven, crocus and snowdrop slowly unfolding in the sunlight. In her presence it all sang in a different tune, and she didn’t even seem to notice. At first her perspective clashed with his, a gloomy place in the shadow of the Temple of the Ashes. The colors of her dream ran into his as if she dropped the pigments on a wet surface. Intruding his personal space. He wasn't sure how to handle it.  
He needed to think.  
“Dirthara, it’s time to wake up.”

 

Dirthara

Laughter. Varric. A hoarse rumble that she learned to recognize too quickly, often followed by a snide comment. Dirthara closed the door to Solas’ house, turned around and was greeted by one of those grins that the dwarf seemed too weak to hinder. A trickster. From his head and down to his toes, that was what he resembled, which was the reason why she didn’t trust him, but at the same time drawn to him.  
“Slept well, kid?” he wondered innocently, which Dirthara replied with a yawn and a nod. She was certain though that his question was not as innocent as she was led to believe. He was of course excused; he wasn’t familiar with Dalish traditions. She was the First.  
“The Seeker was asking for you. She’s in the chantry”, Varric continued, “if you don’t mind the company, I’ll take you there.”  
“That would be… Thank you.” Dirthara pulled Solas’ plaid closer around her shoulders, a tattered thing of wool in green and brown. I’m not yet too familiar with Haven.”  
“Enough to find your way to Solas’ place, apparently”, Varric pointed out as they started their ascend towards the tall building at the top of the hill. Another insinuation, and yet again she would excuse him for his lack of knowledge. His words ran like water over her skin.  
“Pure luck”, Dirthara stated, calmly, though with a slight sense of worry. If this was what he thought of her, what would others believe? What would... She felt a cold shiver go down her spine and took a deep breath before she continued: “I was out walking last night and saw him through the window.”  
“Do you do that often?” Varric wanted to know, “Walk around at night?”  
Dirthara looked down at her feet. The boots she’d borrowed, two sizes too large, kicked the snow around with every step forward. “I sometimes have trouble sleeping”, she murmured. “It is as if my head starts spinning and I can’t get a clear thought out of anything.” Or rather, there was never a middle ground. She either slept like the dead and if awoken she had no memory of it, or she fell asleep and her dreams kept waking her up if they didn't catch her. It was a balance act, and usually it was easier to stay awake.  
Varric chuckled. “I know that feeling. I have a name for it: Plot-bunnies.”  
“What did you call it?” She couldn’t have heard him right, even though the term spoke for itself.  
“Plot-bunnies. I’m a writer, hence the expression.”  
Dirthara almost stumbled over her own feet when she turned her head to study the dwarf. “Writer?” Him? A learned man? The world outside the Clan was more than surprising. She realized that, despite her travels, she hadn't seen much of the world. “Have I read your work?” she asked.  
“Don’t look at me like that, kid, you’ve got this all wrong. I write fiction, which I doubt your people find interesting.”  
“My people…” Dirthara’s words trailed away, disappeared together with her thought. A crawling sensation along her spine. Eyes. Eyes everywhere. Probing, searching - or maybe just lingering too long. Whispers, first behind her, then from the stairs ahead.  
“The Herald of Andraste…”  
“She was to close the Breach…”  
A man kneeled, lowered his gaze as if the vision of her would burn his eyes out, others followed his example. The haunted silence in the cold sunlight made the hushed voices creep under her skin. She sneaked closer to Varric, walked the rest of the way to the chantry just by his side. The man she hadn’t trusted only moments ago became her haven.

Dropped, lost and drowning. She’d been thrown directly into chaos once more. An inquisition. The Seeker was a fiery woman, of a diplomacy that spoke with violence. Loudly. If you shouted loud enough you’d get what you wanted. Dirthara had her to thank for her life, but all this shouting made her feel uneasy. The words rolled off the woman’s tongue with such speed, they rattled with venom before she even had a chance to think her actions through. The reward - the Inquisition she had wanted was all alone, and in the middle of it all a Dalish woman without the slightest clue of where to start. Expectations, they looked at her for guidance, and she was just… Lost. With these thoughts wrestling in her head she walked back down the stairs towards her house. She didn’t even notice the ravens cawing in the sky or that her door was unlocked.  
“Where have you been, da’len?”  
Dirthara jumped from surprise, her head suddenly completely blank.  
Farras. The red haired elf sat in the chair by the fire, warming his hands. His voice was soft and pleasant, his smile almost convincing. His green eyes didn’t speak the same language as his mouth though, and those true smile would remain nothing but bittersweet memories if she could't...  
“I’m not a child, Farras”, she stated bitterly and looked down at her feet. It was warm inside, but Dirthara pulled the tattered plaid tighter around her. “I was called to the chantry.”  
“All night?” The elf clicked his tongue against his teeth. “The shemlen ask too much of you.” He rose out of the chair and moved over the floor towards her in one slender motion, stood behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders only moments later. “Dar mala sulevin? Ma banal las halamshir van vehn*.”  
His voice not much more than a tremble close to her ear and her heart was pounding hard in her chest. In a different time, and with different words... But now, this was Farras; a follower of Vir Banal’ras. She didn’t dare to test his temper.  
Dirthara responded with a snicker and turned her head to meet his gaze, put on that hospitable mask she called her work face. “Are you questioning my choices?”  
“No. Maybe.” Another smile which his eyes didn’t follow up on. “We linger here for no reason. The Breach is closed.”  
“No, not yet. You are free to leave whenever you want.” Dirthara took a deep breath and moved away from him. Walked towards her bed and started to fold the pile of clothes that she’d left there the night before, just to look busy. “I have duties here to fulfil before I leave.” And still her heart was pounding like a frightened sparrow in a golden cage.  
“Ma nuvenin.*” Farras’ voice the purr of a cat watching frail wings flutter. He left the house, but for how long?

Uneasy. She hardly dared to change her clothes. Farras’ presence, despite the fact that he wasn’t in the house, made her feel hunted. A rabbit, fleeing from the arrows, and her fear pained her more than anything else. Dirthara tried to read a book, but couldn’t concentrate, folded her clothes again before putting them away in the dresser only to have her idle hands doing something. Maybe she should leave, flee from this place and never return.  
No. This was important, she had a purpose here. She could explore the area, give it a couple of hours. It was a lovely day, it would be enough to clear her mind. The alchemist might need herbs with so many wounded.  
So many wounded.  
It was all so… pointless and still too great to grasp.  
“You have to start somewhere”, she murmured to walls without ears. They depended on her. She was the only one, couldn’t leave the mark in somebody else’s hands. Sadly.  
Dirthara grabbed her coat, Solas’ plaid and stepped into the boots by the door. 

As it turned out, the alchemist’s wasn’t far from Solas’ house. Meaning she could return the plaid rather quickly. Solas himself was standing barefoot in the snow, squinting towards the green scar in the sky where the Breach had been a growing shadow only days earlier. For now, it was still.  
“I’ve heard the whispers”, he said when she came closer, “You’ve become their hero.”  
Dirthara looked down at her oversized boots and the rest of her mismatched borrowed clothes. “A small feather turned into a goose.”  
Solas smiled. “Every war has its heroes, Dirthara. Which one do you choose to be?”  
His question made her stomach turn upside down. She realized she’d forgotten to eat, only because she didn’t throw up. “The one who wish to help everyone, but doesn’t know where to start”, she replied and swallowed to make the sour taste in her mouth disappear. It didn’t.  
“What’s wrong?” He studied her under furrowed eyebrows, “Are you hurt?”  
“No, I just feel so powerless, Solas. Everything is growing out of proportions.” She swallowed again, but her mouth was dry. And then came the tears. Like broken dams the rivers were released and she just couldn’t stop it. “Ir abelas”, she blubbered, wiped her nose with the sleeve of the coat. Blinked to make the tears disappear. “Oh, damn it.”  
“Tel’abelas.” Solas voice was closer than expected, then she felt his arm around her shoulders. “Come, let’s go inside.”

He sat down on his bed with her in his lap, and for some reason it didn’t seem strange at all. Should it? Maybe. She cried, he lulled her as if she’d been a child, stroking her back, and she had never felt safer.  
“I didn’t mean to make you cry”, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”  
“It’s not your fault”, Dirthara sobbed against his shoulder, “you didn’t know.”  
“I should have.”  
And at some point she was out of tears. Breathing unevenly and with every breath his scent of leather, moss and soap in her nose. It felt safe, familiar.  
Dirthara lifted her head and sniffled. “I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be.” Solas wiped her cheek with a calloused hand.  
“There’s snot on your collar.” She sniffled again.  
His reaction? A smile that grew into a grin, then a chuckle. “I know how to wash my clothes”, Solas replied.  
“The arcane secret of laundry.” Dirthara smiled back. “Which reminds me. Here’s your plaid.”

\-----  
Translation of Farras' dialogue:  
*Is that your purpose? You do nothing to further our people.  
*As you wish.


	3. Hinterlands

Solas

After Dirthara’s emotional flush, Solas was a little more than concerned. The future was resting in her hands, and she broke under pressure - before things even had a chance to get serious. He gave her excuses, again her young age and restrained life as a First in a Dalish clan. He didn’t even consider the possibility of her being weak in mind, her position and skills talked against it (even though she was Dalish). To be honest, he’d gotten to know her quite well during these last few weeks; she stopped by for a session of focus training every afternoon, came by his house on her way to the chantry every morning, just to talk or to ask for guidance. Of course he would stay, help out as best he could, what else could he do? She confided in him. He never locked his door anymore, he didn’t mind her company and everybody else left him alone.

“You need to make lists”, he said to her one morning when she walked unannounced through the door to his house, “it will, if nothing else, give you a good overview.”  
He’d been right about that. From that day on, she didn’t go anywhere without a journal, in which she wrote down objectives and crossed them out as soon as they were done. It gave her time to think, and by that she made mature observations, found diplomatic solutions and spoke for herself and her cause with words that surprised even him. This new, almost serene calmness she projected was contagious and their mission became something positive even though it in many ways seemed to be a desperate one. Their trips away from Haven made that more obvious than anything.  
Well, at least until that day when they finally reached the Winterwatch Tower after several days on foot:

“So, Chuckles, have you thought about it?” Varric’s breath was hitched, but that wasn’t surprising. The rolling hills in the Hinterlands combined with his short legs compared to everybody else’s and the fact that Varric usually prefered sitting down to enjoy the finer things in life would of course have that effect on him.  
“About what?” Solas’ focus was ahead. He trusted Dirthara’s competence as the leader of their mismatched group, but he had taken it upon himself to be an extra pair of eyes. Not that he doubted that Cassandra did the same thing, but to make sure there were no surprises.  
“The girl of course!” For every step Solas took, the dwarf needed two and a half, which meant that Varric was jogging by his side to keep up with his speed.  
“What should I think about it, Varric?” Solas snorted and offered the dwarf a wry grin. “She’s a competent leader.” Yes, she would make a fine Keeper one day, that he was sure of.  
“Do you not see her kissable lips, the sway of her hips, her sublime grace and think of her in other ways?” Varric shook his head. “What is it with you elves.”  
“Are you watching my derriere, Varric?” Dirthara flashed a smile over her shoulder, a smile that corresponded well with the sunlight reflecting in the waves of her hair. Solas couldn’t hide a wide grin; she had a sharp tongue if needed, but used it in such a subtle way that even the dwarf looked confused from time to time. Not this time though.  
“I’m too short to see anything but derrieres, kid”, Varric grunted. “What about you? Solas could be the perfect love interest in any romantic fiction. You know, the silent thinker-type who isn’t aware of his wide shoulders, narrow hips and muscular legs. Seeker, when do you think they’ll give in to the urges?”  
“Don’t be silly.” Solas was still grinning though, this joke had already become a part of his daily life. “Just because we’re both elves it doesn’t make us more than friends.”  
“Hear, hear!” Dirthara replied loudly.  
Cassandra laughed before turning around to meet Varric’s gaze, but in her sufficient manner she was jogging backwards to still be on the move. “I give them half a year.”  
“Is that a bet?” Varric hauled a notebook and a pencil out of one of his pockets. “How much should I put you up for, five gold?”  
“You must be kidding me.” Dirthara turned around too, and just as Cassandra she was making a reversed jog to keep up the speed. She still looked amused and slightly curious. “You’re actually gambling on it?”  
“Are you surprised?” Varric looked at his notes. “Curly placed a ten gold bet on first kiss in three months, added marriage in a year.”  
Both Solas and Dirthara exploded into laughter, which forced their party to a full halt. Only Cassandra kept jogging on the spot.  
“I’m in”, the warrior decided. “Five gold.”  
“You could give all your money to the person who placed a bet on ‘never’ straight away”, Dirthara pointed out, but not without adding: “No offence, Solas. I value your friendship highly.”  
Of course he didn’t mind; the feeling was mutual.  
“Out of curiosity”, Solas collected himself enough to speak, but was still grinning, “Who would in that case win that bet?”  
“Hm. Noone.” Varric turned the pages in his notebook back and forth. “I believe Leliana would be closest with two years.”  
Dirthara’s and Solas’ eyes met and they started laughing uncontrollably again.  
“I suddenly find your kissable lips, the sway of your hips and your… what was it Varric? Sublime grace? Anyway, I find it all absolutely irresistible.” Solas snorted. “Maybe we could build something upon that.”  
“That, or your narrow hips”, Dirthara pointed out, “you cannot forget about the importance of narrow hips in a good relationship.”  
“Hear, hear!”

When they had built camp that evening and was having their supper around the campfire, the subject arose again though. From a spontane gesture of consideration from Solas’ part. He didn’t think much of it himself. Dirthara was shivering even though the fire radiated heat, her hands enveloped in her armpits. Solas picked up the old plaid from his backpack and placed it over her shoulders, nothing more.  
“Half a year”, Cassandra chuckled and had another bite from the rabbit haunch in her hand. “I’m sure of it.”  
“For being a gentleman?” Dirthara offered Solas a thankful smile and pulled the plaid tighter around her.  
Cassandra swallowed and grinned. “Do you see him offer me any plaids?”  
“Ah, poor Seeker. You’re too independent.” Varric had a sip from his bottle of beer and placed it on the ground, locked between his feet. “You should try to look weak once in awhile, let the knight in shining armour have a chance to sweep you off your feet.”  
“I don’t need to be rescued, thank you very much.” Cassandra threw the empty bone over her shoulder.  
“And that’s why Solas didn’t give you the plaid.” Varric’s eyebrows rose as he took a deep breath to continue. “However, you make a good point, Seeker. Half a year doesn’t seem too far off.”  
Solas sighed and shook his head. “Please, Seeker. Don’t encourage him.”  
“They aren’t really working with us here, Varric.” Cassandra looked rather sly for a moment, which was slightly unnerving. It was a look that didn’t suit her, it made her look like a hungry hyena. Solas shuddered.  
Varric snapped his fingers. “From now on they share tent. Right back at you, lovebirds.”  
“What?” Solas and Dirthara clamored in chorus. For different reasons, Solas suspected, but still they seemed to prefer the arrangement they already had: one tent for the women and one for the men.  
“If you snore I’ll cut your head off, Varric.” Cassandra reached for another rabbit haunch from the spit over the fire.  
“Well, shit.”  
“So Solas.” Dirthara turned her head and Solas met her gaze. The corners of her mouth was tilted upwards and her eyes had that mischievous glint. “They want to share a tent, they argue all the time and Varric knows what Cassandra needs. How long…?”  
“Oh, come on.” Varric grabbed his bottle of beer and had another sip. “Didn’t you hear her? She wants to cut my head off.”  
“Oh, a week. At the most!” Solas made a gesture towards her backpack. “Your notebook. We have to collect bets.”

Despite Dirthara’s argument about the inconvenience of their new sleeping arrangements, Varric and Cassandra rolled out their bedrolls in one of the two tents while giggling uncontrollably.  
“This is very inappropriate”, she stated, with furrowed eyebrows and pouting lips. “I’m the first of clan Lavellan, if my Keeper knew about this…”  
Solas could relate to her worries. The mages in the Dalish culture were in many ways treated similarly to aristocracy in other societies. She was, at some point, going to be married off to another Dalish mage. It was crucial that her virtue stayed intact, and he was a man after all. Not that his intentions were in any way leaning towards that direction.  
“Please, Seeker, listen to her.” Solas stood up from where he’d been sitting by the fire. “Whether you want it or not, you are posing as her chaperon on these excursions.”  
“I trust you to keep her purity unblemished”, Cassandra muttered with a frown. “At least until after the wedding.”  
“She’ll probably cut your head off if you don’t”, Varric added with a shrug.  
Solas turned to Dirthara and since he couldn’t solve her dilemma, he offered her a wry smile. “It’s a lovely evening. I’ve slept under the stars before.”  
“That’s hardly fair.” Dirthara turned around and looked up at him with a concerned pout and her unease on the matter was certainly heartwarming but unnecessary.  
“I honestly don’t mind”, he assured her.  
*  
“Solas?” Her voice was not much more but a whisper and an echo, and yet again his beat got a new delicate cadence, his tetrameter balanced with her faster trochees and iambs. Again, the colors swirled into his vision, striking pigments dropped on a wet surface and running into his very being. She was suddenly standing in front of him, a free spirit with glowing eyes.  
“Dirthara.” Not more than a recognition that he’d noticed her, heard her. In true honesty, he wasn’t surprised to see her this time, only slightly taken aback. This used to be his private space; other dreamers seldom dove as deep into the Fade as he did.  
“Have you seen the castles out of crystal in the clouds beyond the heavens?” She was excited, an almost blinding purple light surrounding her being. He looked towards the sky where she was pointing and remembered. It struck a chord in him that almost made him cry.  
“Forgotten dreams and hidden paths are nothing more than memories of sorrow for what people have forsaken”, he murmured.  
“For me it’s true. It never seemed so right before, why are you pouting, Solas?” Dithara sounded almost patronizing, and her optimism was captivating. The colors spread and soon the forest around them was a sanctuary, mists under the trees, chirping crickets and the hushed mumble of birds as they hid their heads under their wings to sleep.  
“I see that you despise the lies, but veils will only shadow what is hidden”, she continued after a short pause, as if her teasing words would have harmed him. She couldn’t know how right she was.  
“We see what we all hope to see, the story have two sides to show, and yet this dying dream is never mentioned.” Solas looked up towards the stars where the crystal palace was glowing in the setting sun. “You cannot find the lies in here, and neither truth. That’s what you seek? It’s intertwined and equally delivered.”  
She nodded. “I practice every night to find the words I need to finally match the meaning.”  
*  
When Solas woke up, he yet again felt intruded.

Dirthara

Had she done something wrong? Dirthara couldn’t say, but something had changed. Solas avoided her while they were having breakfast around the fire, kept to himself.  
“You should have slept in the tent, Chuckles”, Varric pointed out and poured the rest of his tea over the last embers. The strong tea, a taste Dirthara knew that Solas detested.  
“I am perfectly fine, thank you very much.” Solas was still as mild mannered as she was used to, but with a sharpness that she hadn’t seen before. His mind was wandering and not along roads he enjoyed.  
The party collected their things and broke camp fast, but Solas’ sulking was infective. Cassandra and Varric walked ahead, which left DIrthara and Solas to themselves. At first they walked side by side under silence, Dirthara glancing at him every once in awhile as discreetly as she could. It didn’t take long for her to find their silence overwhelming. She cleared her throat.  
“So, Solas. You seem to know a great deal about the ancient elves. Are you willing to share?”  
“I thought you were the expert on the subject”, he muttered and stared down at his feet. “You’re Dalish, are you not?”  
Dirthara bit her jaws tightly together. He had no reason to be rude, she was just making idle conversation. “What’s wrong, are you allergic to halla?”  
“No, only to ignorance.”  
His words were like a hard fist in the diaphragm. Did he just call her ignorant? Dirthara sighed and shook her head. Maybe she was, she didn’t know, but at least she tried to be open minded. ...Or did he know? Her heart skipped a beat. “Have I done something to anger you, Solas?”  
“No.” Solas kicked a pebble on the track, so hard that it flew into the woods with a rattle through leaves and grass.  
“So why are you treating me like this?” She kept her hands in tight fists in the pockets of her large coat, managed to keep her voice calm, but her face was turning warm as the anger flushed her cheeks. Wasn't going to let the beast out of its cage.  
Solas stopped abruptly, still staring at his feet. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”  
“And still you call me ignorant.” She bit down hard on her bottom lip to not say something that would make things worse, but came to a halt beside him.  
Solas lifted his gaze, looked her straight in the eyes. “I didn’t.”  
Everything he’d said spun around in her head like a tornado. She spoke slowly when she managed to find a thread of thought to pull out of the mess. “You are saying that the Dalish, as a people, are ignorant. I’m Dalish.”  
“One day you will become Keeper of your clan”, Solas said calmly, but the fingers on his right hand was folding and unfolding a strap on his backpack. “When that day come, you will teach the same words you’ve been taught, because that is what is expected of you. Words that through the years have derived so far from the truth that it isn’t the same stories anymore.”  
“Then you don’t know me very well. And, you just called me ignorant again.” She had to fight hard to keep her temper, keep her voice steady. Everything was still so sensitive, the darkness just a lash away, and it was a difficult fight to keep it down. The darkness was always so persuasive.  
Solas cleared his throat and stroke a hand over his head. “So what would you do? Revolute?”  
Dirthara took a deep breath, felt her pulse go down, forced her demons back. “I find it hard to tell you, since it makes me sad, but truth is that I’m hoping…”  
Solas interrupted her with a sudden outburst. A harsh voice and flaring nostrils. “You’re hoping for a different tune? For me to change my view?”  
Dirthara jumped backwards of surprise. He only interrupted her to be rude again, and still he wouldn’t let her understand why he was acting like this. It wasn’t like him. She continued her sentence where she had trailed off. “...that you would understand the fear and loathe I feed for all these worn out ruins.”  
His facial expression softened, and so did his voice. “Then why do you defend their misimpression?”  
His temper was as unpredictable as his words. It made her even more puzzled. So much so, she didn’t know what to answer, which was why she finally made a wide gesture with her hands and sighed. “If everything we know is wrong, then teach us right. I wouldn’t stand against you.”  
Solas looked confused, the silence around them giving more volume to his single word. “Why?”  
“Because neither religion nor history are facts until proven so”, Dirthara snapped between clenched jaws.  
For a moment, Solas was just standing there, as if he needed time for her words to sink in. Then he began to walk along the track, slowly with his head bowed down in thoughts. Dirthara felt just as if all the energy in her entire body just ran out of her, but she followed in his footsteps. None the wiser she tried to make out what it had been that made him lash out like that. It came to her as a flash from a clear sky. He didn’t like the fact that she was Dalish. Why? What difference would it make if she’d been born a shemlen?  
“Dirthara?”  
“Yes?” She looked up and their eyes met.  
“Your name suits you all too well.” Solas slowed down to walk beside her. “I’m sorry, I should have known.”  
“You proud bastard.” Dirthara pushed him off the track with an angry grunt and left with tears burning hot behind her eyelids, but Solas only chuckled. She wanted to kick something, anything, and aimed for a stick that happened to rest peacefully on the path. It rolled a couple of inches forward in a very unsatisfying manner.

Varric and Cassandra had come far ahead, but was waiting for them by a fork in the road. The dwarf was sitting on top of a large rock and the Seeker leaned against the trunk of an old oak. Her arms were crossed, but her feet were stomping restlessly.  
“Look!” Varric pointed at Solas and Dirthara when they finally caught up with them. “They’ve had their first fight! Isn’t that just adorable?”  
Dirthara muttered a couple of incoherent curses under her breath, took a turn to the left and kept walking. Long strides without even pausing to see if the rest of the party was coming along.  
“Not the right time, Varric.” Cassandra’s armored boots found a hasty beat against the gravel on the path as she followed in Dirthara’s wake.  
Not the right time. Damn right. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. Solas really was a proud bastard, she wondered why she hadn’t noticed before.  
“You look rather pleased though, Chuckles.” A loud thud was heard when Varric jumped down from his rock.  
“Hm.” Solas’ short expression made Dirthara even angrier. How did he have the nerve to act like he had, and then just brush it off as casually? She felt deeply offended on a personal level, and she was going to make him understand that. Was her thoughts only worth anything, as long as she agreed with him? Narrow minded piece of shit.  
Cassandra came up by her side, followed in her fast pace without even breaking a sweat.  
“He didn’t touch you inappropriately, did he?” She sounded genuinely worried, which for some reason was even more irritating. “Because if he did…”  
“Of course not, why would you even...?” Dirthara sighed and rolled with her eyes. The bet. And the ongoing gag. Of course. “Just cut it out, will you? I wouldn’t let him touch me with a ten feet pole.”  
After that they continued their hasty march without exchanging a single word. Not even the sight of the Winterwatch Tower in the distance made a difference on the mood of the group. The plan had been to convince the cultists in the fort to join their cause; they were mainly apostates, and according to Solas, Dirthara would need mages to be able to close the Breach.  
That jerk, what made him think that he had all the answers? She should just turn around, walk back and…  
No, that wouldn’t be a constructive solution, they had already lost three days on this journey alone. Dirthara climbed the stairs up the mountainside with her mismatched crew behind her, plastered on that fake smile she called her work face and headed towards the first person she could see. A woman.  
“Good morning, my friend! And isn’t it a lovely morning?” she began, as if selling a pitch. And to begin with, it seemed like she might be able to convince the woman to vouch for the Inquisition - hadn’t Dirthara been in such an argumentative mood. Instead of showing interest in their ideas, she pointed out the errors of their ways - who in their right mind would leave family and responsibility for a cult. It went so far that Varric pulled her aside.  
“Um, kid?” His nervous smile made the words sound like hisses. “Maybe you could at least try to treat these people nicely? Just a thought. You know, they might not like to be called idiots.”  
“I never said that.” Dirthara’s work face made her speak in an overly soft tone. “Well, not flat out in their faces, anyway.”  
Varric grunted. “Being condescending is pretty much the same thing.”  
Dirthara let out a sardonic laugh. “Be a dear and continue this conversation with Solas. Maybe he listens to you; after all, you’re not Dalish.”  
That’s when Dirthara realized something. These people were just like herself. The Inquisition was, after all, not much more than a cult. Formed around herself, or the Herald of Andraste, as they kept calling her - and she had left her home for this. The thought made her queasy and weak in the knees.  
“We should leave”, Dirthara stated abruptly. “I can’t do this.” She inhaled and held her breath to not throw up.  
Varric and Cassandra seemed to share her opinion, and maybe they would have returned home then and there if it hadn’t been for Solas. The smooth bastard; in a matter of minutes, he had the entire fort convinced that the only right thing to do was to follow the Inquisition.  
“Let’s go”, he murmured as he passed Dirthara and walked towards the gates.  
“Before they change their minds”, Varric pointed out nervously. 

When they made camp that night, there were no jokes around the campfire, Varric didn’t tell any stories and Cassandra went to bed early.


	4. Deceit and Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for domestic abuse.

Solas

It was late evening, and they had just returned from the Hinterlands. The rest of the party stayed by Varric’s tent to play Wicked Grace, Cullen had joined them, but Solas went directly home. Dirthara didn’t speak to him still, and it pained him more than he ever thought it would. He hadn’t noticed, until now, what a huge part she had become of his everyday life. Without their little conversations, everything seemed bland and empty, but what made things worse was that their dispute had put a sordine on the entire group.  
Solas left them by Varric’s tent for two reasons. He knew that Dirthara’s mood, and by that everybody else’s too, would change for the better if he simply wasn’t there. He also needed time to think; on the road he never got the chance. He needed to straighten out the mess in his head. Without noticing, he had been entranced like a moth too close to a fire, and he needed to take a step back to get a new perspective of things.  
Maybe this was a good thing. Solas had allowed himself to bask in the warmth of Dirthara’s spirit for far too long; he was becoming too attached to her.  
Why shouldn’t he? She was friendly and always interested in what he had to say - of course he was flattered by her attention.   
Hm. Yes. Maybe that was it. Solas had a quick look over his shoulder. He could still see their faces around the fire outside Varric’s tent, and Dirthara was already looking more relaxed. Solas grunted and plodded on in a slow pace. In all honesty, he didn’t want to leave.  
Maybe he had been somewhat offensive.  
This was just foolish, he had been outright rude for all the wrong reasons. Their fight had come out of nothing, an absolutely pointless statement he had made. And for what reason? She had gotten too close.  
But if Dirthara expected Solas to be understanding, why couldn’t he demand the same respect? It was frustrating, too many variables to account for. People were usually predictable, followed similar paths, but when it came to Dirthara, nothing was as it was supposed to be.  
Maybe he could figure out why. Something was amiss, he needed to find all the variables and find a solution.   
To start with: her temper. Just as fire was her first choice of element, her temper followed the same patterns. The warmth of her heart could just as easily explode into a firestorm. Maybe it was passion that drove her, she had such a thirst for life itself. Of course everything felt dark and cold around him when her fire went out. This had to be variable x.  
Secondly, she was proud. Variable y. He might have recognized that already; that was where they found their similarities. What he couldn’t figure out though was to what extent and why. She was proud of what she had accomplished despite her short life, but still humble enough to not be boastful; variable z. Solas wasn’t used to that, especially not when being corrected on a philosophical level.  
In fact, he wasn’t used to stand corrected at all. Maybe that was his next variable? No. That was a different calculation all together.  
Wait, there was something else. Dirthara had a purpose. She did never tell him straight out, Solas had to read that between the lines.  
Purpose.  
Solas felt how all the colour left his face. That couldn’t be right. If Purpose followed in her footsteps, she did not only have a strong spirit. If provoked, she could become a fierceful enemy.   
No, that couldn’t be right, that was too…  
Solas shook his head and grunted. She wasn’t starting a revolution, she was just hoping to reform. That had to be his fourth variable, which only made his calculations more complicated. The only constant in this mind boggling equation was her name and her vallaslin. It suited her all too well. That wouldn’t be enough though to figure out her three-dimensional vector subspaces...  
And while trying to wrap his head around that, he felt guilty. She wasn’t interested in his pleas for forgiveness. After further deliberation, he come to the conclusion that they, in fact, had become friends, and that he didn’t want to lose what they had built in such a short time. He was walking on a thin ledge there. She was a dreamer, there were very few of their kind left in the world, but there were two sides of that coin too. Another dreamer on his side would be a benefit, but opposing him? He couldn’t let her get too close before he knew about her motives.  
Solas unlocked his door and went inside. At that very moment he was completely thrown off his track.  
Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, he just knew.   
The single room was dark - as it should. Solas dropped his backpack on the floor, just inside the door, decided that the first thing he should do was to light a fire. Maybe that would make all the difference. Give new light to his perspectives, so to speak.  
It didn’t. The flames were dancing happily on the hearth, but there was still something lingering there. Something that made him feel uneasy. His eyes searched every corner of the room while he listened for… something, smelled the air. His nose and his eyes weren’t lying. The jars of tea weren’t standing exactly as he’d left them, and there was that strange scent of… Deathroot? Solas gave the door another glance. Someone had been in his house uninvited. He needed to sleep to be able to track this down… The chair by the desk. It was a rather heavy piece of furniture, and the backrest would make the handle impossible to move. The intruder had managed to break in before, nothing could convince him that he or she wouldn’t return. The windows… If one broke the glass and just reached in, they would be easy to open. He didn’t know how to solve that problem fast and easy, but figured that he would wake up from the noise. He rose up from the floor and moved the chair over the floor, made sure the door handle was secured before he went to bed.

The spirits reenacted the scene in all its different variations, all at once. He saw himself in the house, one of him sitting by the desk reading, another one playing the lute, a third sitting on the floor by the fire. The house both was there and wasn’t, as well as the tea and the scent of Deathroot. Solas concentrated on the hint of bitterness, followed it to the jars of tea. Waited for the scent to be stronger before he followed the different possibilities.   
In one of them, he drank the tea. His reactions hinted towards intoxication of Quiet Death, a very strong poison that demanded precise skills in alchemy.   
An assassin.  
In another reality, he served the tea to Dirthara. The vision pained him so much that he had to block it out before he even saw her die.  
The reality that made him focus was the one with a redheaded elf dressed in black. There were many people passing in and out through his visions, people he had never seen, but all the others were pilgrims. He pinned down the memory of the redhaired elf. The variations were many, one involving the man just looking in through the door, changing his mind and leaving, another one where he walked in, thrashed the place in a fit of rage and left. Several variations showed how he poured the poison into all the jars of tea, but in all of them something differed. Solas felt compelled to search for every memory about the elf that had been seen throughout the fade. Traced out a pattern from the different realities, found a track leading to a clan of Dalish elves. A bloody trail with swift deaths in its wake. Poisoned daggers, the speed of lightning, that was what he could see, the elf was mostly invisible.  
There was a face though, that appeared over and over again along the track. One he was very familiar with.  
Dirthara. 

Solas woke up, jumped out of the bed and rushed outside. The night had passed, the early morning sun was slowly reaching over the mountains around the valley, coloured the sky yellow and pink.   
Dirthara. He had done right by pushing her away. She wasn’t to be trusted.  
Varric. He needed to speak to Varric. The dwarf was probably still fast asleep, but he had a tendency to see the small details everybody else usually missed. The snow on the paths was frozen solid and felt like knives under his bare feet, but the cold air didn’t bother him.  
The fire outside Varric’s tent had burned out, but there were still remains from last night thrown around. A couple of empty bottles, dried fruit spilled and stomped down in the snow, a couple of playing cards, all dressed. Muffled snores from the tent made one thought run through Solas’ head before he opened the flaps: Varric still had his head on his shoulders, despite Cassandra’s threats.  
“Master Tethras.”  
“Hmm…” The dwarf spun around and returned to his snoring.  
“Master Tethras. Varric, you have to wake up.” Solas grabbed his foot and shook it. “I have to talk to you.”  
“I’m… I’m busy...” Varric kicked in Solas’ direction, still somewhere between sleep and wake. “Return tomorrow…”  
Solas cursed between his teeth. “Stubborn dwarf, wake up!”  
Varric grunted. “Yes, yes. I’m up.” Slowly - in Solas’ opinion, slower than slow - the dwarf crawled himself up into sitting position. “What is it?”  
“A redhaired elf dressed in black. Have you seen him?” The words tumbled over each other as they hurried out of Solas’ mouth, and his usual politeness was completely blown away.  
Varric yawned and nodded. “Farras. Dirthara’s private guard. Nice guy, but he cheats at Wicked Grace.”  
“So do you”, Solas pointed out, but didn’t wait for one of Varric’s long explanations of how cheating was a rudimental part of every game as long as it was done right. “A nice guy, huh? He’s been in my house. Uninvited. Poured Quiet Death in all of my tea.”  
Varric stiffened and his eyes widened. “Don’t be silly, Chuckles. Firstly, Quiet Death is a very difficult poison to produce…”  
“I know”, Solas interrupted. “That’s why I need to know everything about him.”  
“Why would he…?”  
“That’s what I want to find out.” Solas hoped more than anything that Dirthara didn’t have anything to do with this, but if that man was her personal guard...  
Varric yawned again and drew his hand over his face with another grunt. “How do you even know it’s him?”  
“I saw it in the...”  
“The fade”, Varric cut in. “Just… Hush. I don’t want to know.”  
“So. Dirthara’s guard”, Solas murmured. “I still can’t see a reason for such a drastic action.”  
Varric suddenly jumped up on his feet and pushed Solas out of the entrance to the tent. “You are very slow sometimes, Solas. Come, we need to go to Dirthara and make sure everything is alright. We’ll discuss this on the way.” He grabbed Bianca while on the run, stuck his feet in his boots and rushed out.

Dirthara

When Solas left, everything became so much easier. He certainly was a distraction, whether it was a good one or not didn’t really matter. Dirthara could almost feel her shoulders sink back to place and how her frown was turned upside down the second Varric picked up his deck of cards. The jargon around the fire as they sat down for a round of Wicked Grace was of course helping.  
“So, how many dressed cards are there this time, Varric?” Cullen sneered as he threw a couple of logs on the fire.  
“In the deck?” The dwarf snorted and shuffled the cards with one hand. “Everything is as it should be, Curly.”  
“Meaning the rest of them are up his sleeves”, Cassandra scoffed.  
Varric’s respond to that was a sly grin that stayed on his face while he dealt the cards.  
Dirthea snickered and looked down at her hand. “So, remind me… What’s better, a flush or a house?”  
“Herald, you’re doing it again.” Cullen’s face across the fire wasn’t showing irritation, though.  
“Hah! This reminds me of something that happened in Kirkwall…”  
Which was the beginning of how Varric managed to get the entire party involved in one of his marvellous stories instead of concentrating on the game. In the middle of it all, Dirthara heard a soft voice behind her.  
“You’re back! Safe and sound, I see.”  
Every hair on her entire body stood on end. She swallowed, glued one of her courteous workfaces on and turned around. “Farras!”  
“Come, have a seat!” Varric scooched to the side to make room for the elf. “We’re playing Wicked Grace.”  
“Yes, why not. I’d like a rematch.” Farras pinned Dirthara with his eyes and sat down between Varric and Cullen.  
It seemed as if only Dirthara lost her interest for the game. She couldn’t find the joy in Varric’s story any more, just laughed politely when everybody else was laughing, placed her bets and cards automatically when she was supposed to. The evening turned darker and colder in an instant. A part of her wanted to return to her house while another part of her wanted to stay. She couldn’t decide what would be worse.  
Varric was telling another story. Dirthara laughed on the right que again, but was totally pulled out of sync when she heard her own name being mentioned.  
“...so since they are the only elves, we’ve been joking around about when they will become a serious item.”  
Dirthara wanted to scream, make Varric stop talking, and when Farras’ and her eyes met across the fire, she was certain of what would come next. How long would it take? That was a different question.  
“But I do not know who this Solas is”, Farras responded through a hearty laugh, but he looked too confident. For once, his grin was showing in his eyes, and she didn’t like it one bit.  
“The mage, the one with an egg shaped head”, Cassandra explained, which was replied with lots of laughter.  
“Ah, well…” Farras pretended to give it a thought. “I think I might have seen him around. One month. He looks like Dirthara’s type.”  
Varric nodded. “He does, doesn’t he?”  
Dirthara sat on needles, waiting for that moment when he would have had enough. Torturing long moments passing by one by one, where he kept laughing at jokes as if it was the first time he’d heard them.  
She knew though, the second Farras turned to her again. “I hate to break it to you, Dirthara, but it is late, you look tired and you have duties to attend to in the morning.”  
It would be worse if she protested, how politely she ever did so. Another automatic reaction followed, before she even had a chance to think it through: she nodded slowly and rose from her seat. “You’re right, Farras.”   
Being the first to leave a party was not news to her. Dirthara had faked these smiles before, knew how to keep her mask on when Cassandra and Cullen protested.  
“It’s not that late.”  
“You could at least stay for another round?”  
“No, Farras is right.” She pretended to yawn behind her hand, but inside the storm of her first fear had subdued to emptiness. There wasn’t anything else to do than go, if she waited it would only get worse later.  
Farras walked around the fire and offered her his arm. Dirthara didn’t dare to neglect his gesture.  
They talked about neutral things all the way back to the house, keeping up appearances. Dirthara smiled when Farras told her an anecdote that was supposed to be amusing, but on the inside she felt nothing at all. Braced herself, crept into her shell. 

As soon as the door was closed and locked behind them, the explosion came. A slap in her face that made her cheek burn and her head spin. This was nothing. She could endure.  
“What am I supposed to tell the Keeper of your behaviour?” Another slap, this one so hard that she fell to the floor. “Solas, huh? A noname, a shemlen?”   
Dizzy, Dirthara tried to get back on her feet, and through the numbing feeling in her face she could taste metal in her mouth. She lifted a hand to make sure her teeth were still there, which made Farras laugh. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her up on her feet.  
“You know I wouldn’t hit you that hard in the face, da’len.”  
She didn’t know. He hadn’t before, but that wasn’t now. His eyes were dark pits and the grin on his lips made her doubt he wouldn’t go further this time. The pain was subduing into numbness, but it was still difficult to focus, so when he pressed his lips against hers she hardly noticed at first. A lag from which she was violently pulled seconds later. His mouth tasted of bitter ale, her lips felt like open wounds. With all the power she could muster, she pushed away, panting for air. His hand in her hair made her feel trapped, she couldn’t move away.  
“Farras, stop, please just stop!” Her voice was weak and her begging request only seemed to spur him further.  
“No. It should be as obvious to you as it is to me by now, my dove. You don’t do as you’re told without discipline.” Farras reached for her walking stick by the door.   
The memory of the pain from before, another place and another time but the very same stick, made her try to break free from his grasp. “No.. ”   
Only a stern look from the red haired elf was needed for her to close her mouth. The breath was hitched and she knew she was crying from how her nose was running, making it difficult to breathe. Dirthara swallowed and her stomach flipped upside down. Because of her insolence this would only take longer.   
Farras’ smile grew wider. “That wasn’t right, now, was it?”  
In her head Dirthara repeated to herself:   
I deserve this. Just endure.   
So she gave in. Swallowed again, but her mouth was dry and the taste of blood wouldn’t leave her tongue. She knew the line he wanted to hear, but it wouldn’t find its way through her battered mind. “I’m sorry. Please...”  
A hard beat with the stick over her stomach made her choke and bend over in pain, but with his hand in her hair she was pulled up again like a ragdoll.   
“Try again, and get it right this time.”  
“How many bastes?” Dirthara coughed with her pulse pounding in her ears.  
“This time?” Farras gave the rod in his hand a quick glance. “As many as I need to beat a little common sense into you.”  
“Oh, Mythal…”, Dirthara whimpered.  
Farras shook his head slowly and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Really? Mythal? The goddess will not hear you now.”  
The first beat hit over the back of her knees. She grunted and bit her jaws tightly together, didn’t want to scream. The second one was harder, made her lose balance. The pain from her scalp where a big chunk of hair stayed in Farras’ hand as she fell to the floor was still not worse than what the stick caused, but enough for her to stop counting the rest of the bastes as they danced over her back and shoulders. She crawled into a ball to protect her face and head, heard screams but didn’t realize it was her own voice at first.   
Please let it be over soon, please let it be over soon, please let it be over soon...   
Didn’t notice that the beating stopped until Farras forced her up on her feet again. The room was spinning, but Dirthara was empty from everything but pain, every muscle in her body protesting.  
The reality of the situation returned to her when he pushed her hard against the wall. The back of her head wobbled against the surface, and that might have made her dazed was it not for his lips again pressing over hers. She felt his teeth, his tongue, hands groping over her chest, fumbling their way into her clothes. Disgust and fear was what made her wake up with a shout.   
Dirthara kicked, as hard as she could, at everything that was attached to him, hands clawing over his cheeks as she tried to push him away.  
“You little…” Farras cursed under his breath, but he had a dangerous glint in his eyes. He caught her hands in one of his and felled her over his leg to the floor. Before she could react he sat on top of her, her arms fastened under his knees. He leaned forward and looked her in the eyes.  
“What should I do with you?” Seconds later she felt one of his hands over her throat. Her eyes widened in panic when she couldn’t get air, her fingers clawed over the floorboards and her legs kicked out of panic, but with no purpose.   
The pulse was beating hard in her ears, loud banging noise from the door, lungs feeling like they were about to explode.   
Then as if she was a spectator to a dream she saw two familiar silhouettes in the darkness. Shouts, her ears ringing, then Farras’ grip around her throat was lifted. Enough for her to gasp for breath and cough, every breath burning in her lungs.  
“Walk away from her.” Solas’ voice was trembling, but still calm.


	5. Of remedies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: A bit of violence and a hint of blood. It's all in a good cause though.

Solas

The short trek from Varric’s tent was enough for the dwarf to quickly describe why he’d suddenly felt so uneasy.   
“When Farras came around, she changed. Started acting really strange. Didn’t even try to win the game anymore. Then he told her she should go to bed, and she agreed”, Varric explained, paused to emphasize how out of character he thought that was. “I mean, she’s always arguing about everything, so I found that a little strange.”  
Solas was bound to agree. Even when they shared opinions, she had to discuss it, turn it inside out and upside down until even Solas was starting to find her conversations difficult to follow. Something wasn’t right, which made him feel horrible. He had actually suggested that she might be behind Farris’ deeds - he knew her better than that.  
Through her windows they could see that it was dark. Not pitch black, but dark enough for them to not be able to see anything.  
Wait. Shadows moving around. A muffled scream and a loud bang. Solas and Varric exchanged a quick glance before they ran the few last steps towards Dirthara’s house. Solas almost wished there was something divine he could pray to at that moment, it always seemed so comforting. Was she hurt? Was he too late?  
Solas stopped by her door, pressed down the handle with his heart pounding hard in his chest, but the door to Dirthara’s house was locked. “Varric, do your thing.” His words came out in short bursts and sounded more like an order than a notion.  
The dwarf was remarkably fast with his lockpicks, but nothing could be fast enough right then. Solas didn’t even try to be calm, waited for that click in the lock as if it was a starting signal for a race. He crashed through the door before Varric even got back to his feet. Hands smoking like dry ice of a readied spell, Varric just behind him with Bianca aimed and ready.   
But what met him inside was far from what he’d expected. Solas thought he’d be prepared for anything. Not this. His heart raced, blood charged through his veins, thoughts rushed through his head: oh shit, oh shit, she’s dying, what am I going to do? A shout left his mouth. “Stop!”  
The elf sitting on top of Dirthara looked up, still with his hands around her throat. Solas recognized him straight away. Too close. He was still too close to her for Solas to cast his spell. She might get hurt.  
“Hands up, scumbag.” Varric seemed to be a bit more collected; enough so to find the perfect, most clichéd line he could for this purpose. Solas sighed. Why couldn’t he just shoot the bastard? He obviously had a clear shot.  
The elf in front of them lifted his hands over his head.  
“Walk away from her.” Solas fought hard to keep his voice calm. Dirthara wasn’t moving, her face was almost purple, was he too late?  
Then she coughed, took a rough breath. Yet again Solas wished there had been a god, someone he could thank for sparing her life - he wanted to run over to her, make sure she kept breathing…   
No. Focus. The elf. He was an assassin after all, Solas needed to deal with him first.  
Farras stood up slowly, still with his hands lifted and with such a peaceful smile on his lips that Solas decided it would be dangerous to leave him out of sight even for a second.  
“So, this is Solas.” Farras sounded genuinely friendly. It didn’t put Solas off his guard, but it wasn’t what he’d expected; not after seeing that man’s trail of blood.   
“I’ve heard so much about you”, the assassin continued and took a step forward. “The polite gentleman, the powerful dreamer, the skillful artist - am I forgetting something?” He paused, pretended to think for a moment before he lifted his eyebrows with an inhale. “Oh. Yes. How could I miss it. The wolf in sheep’s clothing.”  
Solas felt how all color left his face. When he met Farras’ glance and saw that triumphant smile on his face, he thought for a moment that his heart stopped beating. He observed without paying much attention to it, how Dirthara rolled over to her side with her hands over her throat, breathing heavily. The room felt cramped, and in the midst of it all this scene played before him as if it was a strange dream. Her face, pale and bruised, eyes red and swollen; the assassin, who…  
Solas inhaled deeply. There wasn’t even a small chance that this man really understood how right he was. With his composure regained, his brain began processing what he saw.  
“Interesting enough, I hardly know anything about you”, Solas replied as he tried to figure out the assassin’s system of linear equations. He knew that he was fast, he knew he could become close to invisible and he knew that the man was deadly. Three variables he was sure of, even had the coefficients.  
Farras snickered. “Thank you, I was hoping you’d say that.” He walked casually towards Solas, still with his hands lifted but his motions so light that not a single sound was heard. “Do you like tea, my friend?”  
Ah. There it was. Solas almost praised the man for offering it to him this freely. That little hint of arrogant self-admiration gave him an intercepting point to the y-axis. He chuckled. “I detest the stuff.”  
Farras’ expression only hinted to disappointment. “Ah. To each his own, I suppose.”  
“We’re not here to discuss drinking habits.” Varric muttered from the door.  
Dirthara’s breath was still wheezing, but steady. A silent whine as she forced herself up into a sitting position on the floor. Her clothes were in shambles, and she moved carefully. She was in pain. For just one moment, Solas’ focus was removed from the assassin to Dirthara.  
That little moment was enough. Solas had seen Farras in the fade, seen what he was capable of, but still he wasn’t prepared for his speed. A burst of quick moves; smoothe, all in a lethal dance; daggers in hands and into a smoke he became an invisible whirlwind. Solas felt the cutting blades three times against his raised arms before he made a fade step to the side. He suppressed the stinging pain and lifted his staff to block the next hit while searching the room for Farras.  
Not a trace, not even a sound. Then, nothing but a flutter in the air, one of Varric’s bolts flashed by and buried itself deeply in the wall on the other end of the room, but even before that Dirthrara screamed. Everything after that happened so fast. Farras’ voice just a whisper in Solas’ ear, a blade against his throat. “We are all artists here, my friend, I just prefer mixed mediums.”  
“Don’t touch him!” A hoarse roar. Dirthara was up on her feet with a strange glow around her. A strange force, not something Solas had felt before, pulled him forward; minute elemental components drawn from him. It was Dirthara, she was doing something - the particles rushed towards her as if she was a magnet. Farras seemed to hesitate, the blade quivered just slightly against Solas’ bare skin. The drapes by the window fluttered, snow flew in through the open door, the cutlery on the table rattled. Then Dirthara lifted her hands. The air stuttered, a forceful pressure wave made Solas step backwards, tumble into the assassin’s chest. They both lost balance, but Farras was a lithe fighter and stayed on his feet where Solas stumbled and fell to the floor.   
And then came the loud discharge.   
Fire was her element, but the flames she threw were blue and burning hotter than anything he’d felt in a very long time. Farras was instantly covered in bright blue flames, and it all passed so fast that the elf didn’t even scream. The heat in the room made the drapes catch fire, the candles melt and the wooden floor burn.  
Dirthara swayed, all color left her face. She had used more power than she had. Solas rushed over the floor, put one arm around her waist before she fell. She froze, made a hissing sound, then looked up. Their eyes met.  
“Are you alright?” both asked simultaneously. Dirthara’s voice not much more than a whisper. Solas grasped her chin, carefully as if she’d been made out of porcelain. Needed to see what damage had been done. He wasn’t quick enough to hide his shock and awe behind a cold mask. Dirthara looked away. Her face was bruised from being strangled, bottom lip cracked and nose bleeding, eyes puffy and red.   
“Has this happened before?” Solas wanted to know.  
Dirthara didn’t answer, but Solas knew.  
“There’s no time for flirting now, lovebirds!” Varric shouted, “We have to leave!”  
“Flirting? Lovebirds?” Solas was about to refute the comment with something rather deadly, when he became aware of why Varric was shouting. The fire was spreading beyond control, and fast.  
“Hurry! Get help!” he shouted instead, “Before the fire takes us all!”   
Varric turned around and disappeared out through the door.  
Solas looked down at Dirthara’s face again. Of course it disturbed him to see her like this, it was painful to say the least, but what made his inside shiver was the deceit. Farras had been her personal guard, she was supposed to be able to trust him with her life. Even if it was a harsh end the elf had gone towards, Solas was determined that he deserved it.  
“We have to get you to the healer”, he murmured and lifted Dirthara up, but was almost about to drop her from surprise when she cried out in pain. He bit his jaws tightly together and held the curses back. No, Farras didn’t deserve that end. It had been too quick. A slow death, something like carving his still beating heart out of his chest with a wooden spoon, that would have been more sufficient.  
Solas sighed. “I’m sorry, Dirthara. This is going to hurt, but we have to get out of here fast.”  
Dirthara just nodded and put her arms around his neck, but the tears were rolling down her cheeks.

A broken rib and bruises that colored her every limb. Why would she let something like that happen, when she obviously had the capability to defend herself? Furthermore, what elements had she used to get the flame to burn with that temperature? Was it a spell she knew, or did she react from pure emotion? While Solas stayed with Dirthara, Varric had a hard time getting the fires out, even though everyone came to help. There were piles of melted and still glowing metal in the debris that was left of Dirthara’s burned down house, the dwarf told him hours later. Thankfully, they managed to make sure that the fire didn’t spread, Haven was old and all the houses built out of wood. It could have been a disaster.  
Well, it still was, to some part, Solas thought to himself as he looked at Dirthara where she still lied motionless in her hospital bed. Awake, but not there; eyes wide open and staring emptily into the distance.  
“Aluminum and iron oxide”, Varric pointed out the next day when he came by to visit. “How did she know that it would burn with a hotter flame; that is hardly common knowledge.”  
“She didn’t.” Solas studied Dirthara’s back. Sometime during the night she had moved, had since then been lying huddled with her face against the wall. He knew she wasn’t sleeping, but he also knew she didn’t hear him. He’d been trying to make contact with her before, as had the healer. “That was not an ordinary spell, Varric. Magic can take very peculiar forms when its caster reacts from base emotions. That is why mages are feared and why the Circles were formed.”  
“Ah.” Varric was quiet for a while. “Why didn’t she panic earlier?”  
“Well…” Solas paused, tried to remember exactly what had happened to find a logic answer. It was in her words. The meaning of them fell over him like a crashing down building, and the impact must have been heard in his words when he finally ended that sentence: “She wanted to save… us.”  
She did say “don’t hurt him”. Of course her words included Varric too, Solas just happened to stand closer to a direct threat, but it was rattling nonetheless.  
“Well, shit.” Varric’s usual reaction to surprises. When it came to Solas though, his head had already passed that thought and was moving along through all the why’s. There was more than one of those.  
His first why rose from Dirthara’s words, the desperation in her voice and her facial expression. He would admit that they had been close before their fight, but he never thought she would go through such lengths to save him from being harmed. He already knew she was of a stubborn and passionate nature, but to find the strength to even try to save her saviours… That was admirable, loyal - and beyond all, unyielding.   
His second why came from his own reaction to the previous thought. He felt so touched that he was tearing up and had to turn his face away to hide this disturbing display of emotion from Varric. With the dwarf in the room he didn’t dare to follow his impulse to lean forward and place a kiss on her temple. That was probably a good thing. Albeit just a peck, but still. It was unnerving that this impulse even existed in his mind, for more than one reason. Varric, for one; Solas wouldn’t hear the last of it; but this was happening all too fast, a pace he wasn’t feeling comfortable with. Dirthara was an acquaintance, then an asset and now… She had quickly enough become a friend he couldn’t afford to lose.  
All this. It was too much to fathom. He wanted to do so much, but couldn’t. She was there, and yet she wasn’t, her weak body just a shell without a mind. What if this catatonic state was all that was left of her? What if… The mark. The Breach. Her.  
He couldn’t stay. The walls, it was as if they were caving in, the room slowly shrinking. He needed time to think, space…  
“I’m sorry, Varric, I just have to…” Solas stood up from the chair by Dirthara’s bed and rushed out of the healer’s house without further notice.  
“Sure, I’ll just sit here”, Varric shouted after him, “As if I haven’t got more important things to do!”  
Solas didn’t answer. The cold winter air in his lungs was helping, but the claustrophobic feeling didn’t subdue. He’d been so afraid, the thought of losing her shook his very foundation, and yet she’d been more worried about him. Every time he saw her, he learned something new about her - about this world and the people in it - and she never ceased to surprise him. She was Dalish, she wasn’t supposed to be…   
It was impossible. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Why would nothing just go according to plans? First the breach, then this...   
Solas ran. Out of Haven, into the forest. He ran and ran, still barefoot with his pulse hammering in his ears and the healing cuts on his arms, didn’t stop until the evening sun was painting the snow on the trees red. He bent over panting, then he threw up. The bandages on his arms were soaking wet and the blood ran in streams over his hands. Droplets rested on his fingertips before they fell to the snow.

The transient beauty of the rose,   
The lingering scent a memory of desire  
To keep at heart when winter snows  
Remind you of how darkness will transpire

Orlaisian poetry. Solas lifted his head from the tattered book in his lap and looked towards the rift in the sky. A clear day, a cold breeze from the north would promise snow during the night. A white veil hiding the ground until next spring.   
In poetry, there always was a hidden meaning, something to find between the lines. When it came to reality, it never was that easy. He could find the equations and predict most of it, but in some cases… The beauty of a rose wasn’t easily forgotten, neither was the scent. It was his memories that drove him, of a time when everything sang the same, when beauty was more than a brief recollection.  
“The transient beauty of the rose, the lingering scent a memory of desire”, Solas murmured, felt the iambs take shape in his mouth, heard how the words rolled off his tongue. A familiar cadence that mixed with his own rhythm, brought color into his life. “To keep at heart when winter snows remind you of how darkness will transpire.”   
Optimism. A thirst for life. That’s what it was. A will to fight, despite unyielding obstacles. He could almost hear her voice reading these words, see how her lips puckered around the syllables as if they were tasting of honey. He wouldn’t compare her with a rose though. She was a lily - white, strict and pure but with an intoxicating scent. A composed and genuine elegance, not at all like a rose…  
Solas furrowed his eyebrows, gave the book a frustrated glare. The cadence. Was that all it took? The way she crashed into his dreams and changed it before his very eyes? Here he was, minding his own business, trying to enjoy a little bit of poetry in his spare time, and she had the indecency to find a way into his private thoughts?  
He had certainly been spending too many nights by her side in the ward, otherwise this wouldn’t happen. Of course. He was tired. How was he able to enjoy literature, when he was tired in both body and spirit - and furthermore, when his mind was being uncooperative? With a defeated grunt he closed the book and rose from his spot on the low wall outside his house.

An hour later he was back, another book resting in his lap as the sun passed zenit over his head. For once, his mind wasn’t wandering, but...  
Solas turned the book around and gave the cover a suspicious squint. Hard in Hightown? Well, obviously… It was smuttier than he’d expected, but the title alone was… Well, he might have known. The book was after all written by Varric Tethras, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Every chapter was filled to the brim and pouring over with all kinds of… hm, excitement, so to speak. Spies, traitors, tricksters. Everyone was - no wait, Donnen wasn’t - in disguise. And if it wasn’t action in the form of adventures, it was depicted in… more private forms. He knew too little about dwarves to be sure - was this how the children of the stone really lived their lives, or was it just how they liked their literature? Or to phrase the question better: was everyone just like Varric? Or maybe it was just Varric. He would have to remember to ask Varric later.  
Irritatingly though, this was the only book he’d been able to immerse into. Well, at least since he’d come back to Haven and Adan had changed the bandages on his arms. The healer had been frustrated at first, pointing out that cuts this deep wouldn’t heal without rest. His expression changed though, when he realized that the blood didn’t coagulate properly. It hadn’t been noticed earlier; maybe because of Dirthara’s, eh, predicaments; but there had been poison on Farras’ blades, something that kept the wounds from healing. Keeping calm and spreading ointments on the area every hour seemed to do the trick, but it also meant that Solas was beginning to feel trapped and restless. Turning to books was his only solution, but it wasn’t of much help when he couldn’t concentrate.  
This book though. Hard in Hightown. It had caught him completely. It had been read to pieces, every page thumbed over and over again - who read this kind of filth, really? Well… Himself apparently. Well, mostly out of curiosity, but other than that? Its purpose was ...different. Like an emotional overload to remove focus from more pressing issues. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. An honorable purpose in a world gone mad.  
“Hey, Chuckles!”  
Solas jumped from surprise, the book flew out of his grasp and landed upside down in the snow. Its brightly coloured covers a stark contrast to all the white surrounding it. He turned his head and smiled at first, but that smile faded when he saw Varric’s facial expression. “Master Tethras.”  
The dwarf’s entire body language spoke the same language as his face mirrored. A hasty march, hands in hard fists at his sides, a straight back and a lifted chin. The eyebrows drawn together under a wrinkled forehead. “Yes. Refinement, that’s all there is, am I right?”  
“Excuse me?”  
“You heard me.” Varric stopped in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know how social skills work, that is obvious, but what about empathy?” His words made Solas feel slightly uncomfortable. He didn’t feel like a part of this world anymore, experienced it as a spectator rather than living in it, so there might be a hint of truth in his words. He doubted though that this was what that little rogue had in mind.  
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Varric”, he replied, as calmly as he could.  
“I’m talking about DIrthara, you oaf.” Varric almost spat out the words. “You’re her closest friend, but while she’s fading away you just sit here, minding your own business.”  
Solas could hear the desperation in his voice, could even understand it. Varric had been sitting by her bed for days, and his worries had left dark rings under his eyes. Furthermore, it was contagious. Of course he was worried, but the more he stayed in her presence, the worse things got. A desperation that he just couldn’t handle. He left the ward every morning with a heavy heart after a night hoping that this might be the last, that she would wake up with a smile when the sun rose.  
“There is nothing I can do to help her”, Solas explained, rather relieved that Varric’s anger wasn’t resting on more complicated grounds, but also slightly concerned. Varric wouldn’t come here if it wasn’t serious.  
“She doesn’t eat, not sleep, Solas.” Varric sighed and looked away. “We had to force feed her, and she almost burned my hair off.”  
“So, let the guy who shaves his head deal with her? Got it.” Solas grunted. Frustrating, really. Nothing ever proceeded without his interference, did it? He needed her back on her feet, as much as anybody else, but she had a disturbing effect on him. Why couldn’t anybody handle such a simple task? Without her, he wouldn’t…   
“You’re probably right, Varric. Let’s go.” Solas stood up from the wall.

“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?” If it wasn’t for Varric restraining him, posing like an anchor around his right arm more or less, Solas would have thrown himself over Adan. “You’re putting us all in danger by your actions!”  
“She cannot recover without sleeping!” The healer was in pretty much the same mood, held back by two nurses. Behind them, three men were sitting up in their beds, confused and probably amused. Further in, Dirthara was fast asleep.  
“So sleeping potion seemed like the best solution?” Solas was so worked up, his words came out in short spurts. “She’s a dreamer, did you ever consider that?”  
“Could both of you just…”   
“Shut up, Varric. This is beyond idiocy”, Solas snapped and tried to break his arm free from Varric’s firm grip. “He’s endangering us all through his reckless actions.”  
“Well then.” Adan smirked and stopped fighting. “Since you know so much, she’s your problem now.”  
Solas chuckled. “My problem? Do you always make others clean up your own mess?”  
“Solas…” Varric again. “He’s got a point, you know.”  
“Excuse me?” Solas glared at Varric. “He put us all in danger, and I’m supposed to save his skin?”  
Varric shrugged. “Well, that’s humans for you.” He paused and made a grimace before adding: “But in reality, it’d be everybody’s skins you were saving. I kinda like my skin, so I wouldn’t mind.”  
Solas sighed, felt how all his anger just ran off him, then he snickered. “A dwarf and an elf, saving the world from the humans.”  
“Worth writing about.” Varric nodded slightly and let go of Solas’ arm. “We’ll need to handle this before something blows up, though.”  
Blowing up was really not what Solas was afraid of though. A mage was already sensitive for demonic possession, but dreamers were a walking accident bound to happen - if they didn’t learn how to control their dreams. A chemical or magical sleep was impossible to control however, and the only way to help Dirthara was to enter the fade. She was moved to Solas’ house, even though he was sceptical, but they didn’t have much of a choice. There was nothing but smoking ashes left of Dirthara’s house.  
“This is hardly appropriate.” Solas murmured when everything was prepared. He stood in the middle of his house with his arms crossed, looking at Dirthara. She was still sleeping, now neatly tucked in under the comforters and blankets in his bed. Her face had regained some of its former color.  
“Indecency is not a matter for debate at the moment, Chuckles.” Varric threw himself down in the chair by the desk. “I could be posing as her chaperon, if that would make things easier.”  
“You?” Solas snorted. “I’ve read Hard in Hightown, Varric. You’d be her highly immoral uncle at best.”  
“You’ve read my book?” Varric both sounded and looked like he was about to fall off the chair.  
Solas nodded. “I found it in the library. I have some questions…” He paused and gazed at Dirthara again before he sighed. “It’ll have to wait. Right now I need to go to sleep.”

Dirthara

When dreams of reason chose to rest on pillars out of stone, and memories without regret was all that would surround her, Dirthara chose to chase them off as if they were annoying flies. Her insides torn apart, ripped to pieces, and she couldn't reach for reason. Dug deeper in her own remorse, cut the unhealed wounds open as if scratching would make things better.   
Farras. She saw him as he once was, a smiling boy with laughter in his eyes. How did things take such a turn? The memories they shared - a childhood in autumn forests came to mind, cool evenings under pale stars, blushing trees their backdrop and crickets their accompaniment. They were hunting rabbits, Farras’ red hair as messy as the rest of him, almost glowing in the setting sun. Nothing was impossible, the imagination was their limit.  
The early teen years. The messy boy had turned into an audacious young man, still smiling with laughter in his eyes. Reality had lowered their limits from anywhere to at least let them reach the sky. And yes. They had been dancing naked under the full moon, intoxicated by both elfroot and that joy for life one only has when tomorrow never comes. It all changed, all too fast. Like a flick of the wrist; her youth was over when she was chosen second, a lifetime ago it seemed. In retrospect, her struggles were feeble and petty-minded, she gained so little and lost so much. What was the Lavellan clan in the whole world when everything was falling apart? It was never worth it.  
And as remorse was hanging over her shoulder, her fallen pride would stay fallen. The only way to grow wiser was through pain, and she’d learnt her lesson. Surrounded by darkness, the only light in her dream was a faded memory, and even that was tainted.   
“We were raised to laugh at fear and love the life that each of us was given”, Dirthara murmured, huddled by the faded memory of children hunting in an autumn forest as if it was a warming fire.  
“And yet the brightest smiles of all are offered by the sorrowful, just like the broken souls become the wisest.”  
His voice was just an echo at first, and the rhythm caused ripples through her imagination, and just as the waves grew bigger the sound of him slowly rose in volume until she could see him fully. His humble appearance was always curious, with a mind like his she’d think a man like Solas would shine stronger. He didn’t compete with her memory, only took a seat by her side with his arms resting over his knees.  
“They would not wish to cause the pain they’ve seen themselves to come to that conclusion”, Dirthara murmured and looked away. This was not a side of herself she was proud of and his presence made her feel self conscious. He’d clearly pointed out what he thought about the Dalish, and she’d been so short-sighted. She could understand his aversion, only by studying her own actions. His peaceful mind would disapprove of her heated choices and for some reason his thoughts of her was important.   
And yet she didn’t ask him to leave. She couldn’t end the dream about what she had lost, couldn’t steer it off towards something less private. The scene with children hunting was still repeated in front of them, the laughter echoing through the darkness around her. Only a viewer of her own life, it felt like she was taking a step back from it to be able to say good bye at all.  
“You held him dear, that’s evident”, Solas stated after a long pause, but his voice carried a strange combination of moods which she found slightly confusing. She turned her head and studied him carefully. A faint smile, reassuring but distant, as if he was trying to mask the melancholy that shone through the fibres of his being. The same melancholy that saturated the melody of all his words. “You mourn your loss then let it fade, the man you knew will always be remembered”, he assured her.

Dirthara shook her head slowly, as she tried to understand what he really was thinking. Sadness, but also relief and doubt. The vibrations made her shiver, and she realized that even though he’d seen more of the world than he wanted, there was something new that made him wonder. A new fear, something he couldn’t control.  
“I’m not in mourn”, she said, simply because it was true. “The boy I knew was lost to me before we reached adulthood.”  
Solas’ subtle signs of surprise was something she was starting to get used to; composed, just a wave over the surface as light as a breeze in petals.   
“I’m scolding him, I’m scolding me, I cannot justify the end I gave him”, she explained, hoping that Solas would understand where nobody else would. “I didn’t only kill the man, I ended every choice that could have changed him.”  
Another flutter of confusion. She looked up and studied his face, surprised to see him smiling still. Maybe she was putting too much hope into one single being. He couldn’t see her goals, and if he did they were too small to rationalize anything.  
“The way you see the world is wise, but ponder not on what have passed”, he said, as calmly as ever, “What’s done is done, you cannot change the history.”  
True. But her pain wasn’t removed that easily. It wasn’t a coat that she could choose to throw away when the sun was shining, it would be a heavy burden throughout the rest of her life.  
“Remorse is not a simple thing to cast aside when future has been altered”, Dirthara pointed out, slightly irritated. It was still there, burning and gnawing in her.   
Her words had a stronger effect on him than expected though. Another flutter, and the smile disappeared. For just a moment she saw something in him through his fortificated surface, something she hadn’t expected. An overwhelming loneliness. His solitude wasn’t chosen. A passing second before he collected himself again, then it was gone.  
“You’re right, my friend.” Solas looked down at his hands, busy fidgeting with a loose thread in the sleeve of his tunic. “You always are. But don’t let pain tear down your walls, I need you... To be strong. They need their hero.”  
He spoke as if he knew the meaning of his words on a personal level. His shield was up again, but now she knew it was a lonely spot he held. He knew what he was talking about, but only from his own perspective. She wasn’t strong enough.  
“They need a dashing knight. I’m…” Dirthara hesitated, didn’t know how to end that sentence and waved a set of vague gestures with her hand as if that would make her words come faster. It didn’t. “...not.”   
Solas lifted his gaze again and their eyes met. “You hardly need a noble steed, nor armor forged from silverite.” The honesty of his words made her lose the last foothold she had in reality. It wasn’t just a Dalish clan anymore, it was an entire world. He intended to be reassuring, but the truth made more than one thing obvious.  
“I’m just a Dalish girl who plays with fire”, Dirthara mumbled. She wasn’t a reliable force, wasn’t this proof enough? They needed a true hero. A godsent force that would take them under their wings.  
“You are the only hope we have.” Solas grabbed her chin with one hand and turned her face towards him, forced her to look at him. He wasn’t smiling anymore and the gravity in his eyes made every word important. “It’s not your choice, I know that much, but still: you hold the key to our salvation.”

“A key that almost killed me, I’m too weak for this”, Dirthara interrupted, the desperation in her voice enough to make everything around her shake. “The world needs a true Herald.”  
Solas shook his head. “A true Herald? There’s no such thing. What do you fear? To disappoint? You can’t give up without a fight, Dirthara.”  
“And if I made the wrong choice?” She cried out, “Would they be forgiving if I pulled the wrong strings?”  
“A choice is always difficult”, Solas agreed, but it hardly made anything easier. He sighed and raised his voice. “Please, listen to me. You are uncorrupted by the world, your mind is honest.”   
He didn’t know how wrong he was. Would he be this considerate if he did? Dirthara had doubt, but he was at least right about one thing. She couldn’t give up without a fight. The worst thing that could happen? Death. Was she afraid to die? Not really. Not anymore.

Solas was already awake when she opened her eyes. He was sitting beside her on the bed, leaning over her with his face only inches away. In the background she heard loud snoring. Dirthara sat up, completely disoriented, just as Solas sprang out of the bed with a confused look on his face and cleared his throat. “I was… making sure you were breathing”, he muttered and walked away to the fire. In the chair by the desk, Varric had fallen asleep with his chin against his chest. With every breath his cheeks were blown up like balloons before the air was let out with a loud huff.  
Solas’ house. The familiar scents made her fall back towards the pillows with a sigh. “I’m hungry.”  
“Good.” Solas didn’t look up from the fireplace, but returned shortly with a bowl of soup. “Be careful, it’s hot.”


	6. Sleepless nights

Solas

About time! Solas sighed from relief when Dirthara’s breath finally became calm and steady. Asleep at last. It had been a long night, and from what Solas could see through the window, it was coming to an end. A clear morning sun was slowly rising.

Varric had left early the night before, awoken from his slumber by the scents of food. Dirthara was sitting up in bed, leaning against a whole pile of pillows, eating her soup slowly. She didn’t seem to mind the taste, but one glance into the pot by the fire had Varric frown and mutter something about real food. Moments later he was gone and Solas was left alone with Dirthara. The silence that followed was more than uncomfortable. The sound of the fire in the fireplace and the clinking from the spoon as it lightly touched against the porcelain with every spoonful of soup Dirthara had was the only thing disturbing this silence.  
Solas cleared his throat. “I’m just…” He pointed towards the fireplace and left the end of the bed where he’d been sitting while Dirthara ate, placed another bunch of logs on the fire even though it wasn’t needed. When that was done, he pretended to be busy picking up bark and splinters that had fallen from the logs to the floor, but after that he couldn’t really find another excuse for avoiding the awkward situation they were in.  
“I’m sorry”, Solas murmured, still with his back against her.  
“What?” He heard the spoon fall to rest in Dirthara’s bowl.  
“I said that I’m sorry. Nothing of this would have happened if I… There are things that I…” Solas swallowed, didn’t really know how to continue. He decided to start over. “I’ve said and done some things that I regret.”  
“People say things…” Dirthara inhaled deeply. “Solas, I understand.”  
“You do?” Solas turned around and studied Dirthara carefully. She had a pained look on her face, but it didn’t seem to source from her physical injuries. This was something else.  
She met his gaze and nodded slowly. “Look. When you came into my dream, I couldn’t shut you out. I didn’t want you to see that, that was private. What I came to understand though was that you value your privacy too. I stumbled straight into your dream without permission. I get it. But please, the next time I tread over an invisible line, could you at least be honest with me?”  
Solas could have hugged her, but refrained from that impulse. “Of course.”  
“And this.” Dirthara sighed and looked down in her hands. “This is not your fault.”

That conversation occurred, however, long before the horrors began. And long before this moment when he more than anything wished that there had been another solution to this predicament. She was finally asleep, without screaming, twisting and turning. Solas was tired, but… Ah.  
With a sigh, Dirthara rolled over and put an arm around him in her sleep. Her hand was so cold against his bare chest that he flinched. How could she even be that cold? She had been complaining about being nippy, so the fire in the hearth had been burning all night. The room was far beyond comfortably warm.  
Well, at least she wasn’t flailing her arms around like a windmill anymore. Solas grabbed her wrist to sneak out of her unintentional embrace, scooched over just a bit and closed his eyes to finally get some well deserved rest.  
The bed wobbled as she began to move about again. Solas grunted from frustration and opened his eyes, gave the ceiling a frustrated glare.  
And then her arms found him again. She wiggled closer, and soon enough he could feel the cold tip of her nose against the bare skin of his neck. Every breath she took tickled in his ear.  
Yes, well, alright. He could live with this; she was at least still and slowly warming up. Solas grabbed the sheets, blankets and the comforter and pulled it up to cover both him and her. A bit too warm for his taste, but it really didn’t matter that much, as long as he could get some sleep. An hour, that would be enough.  
But even this slightest movement had Dirthara moving about again. She snuggled even closer, her hand stroked over his chest and snaked up over his shoulder and around his neck; she hid her face against his neck and rested her thigh over his hip. Solas tensed up, suddenly very aware of her. She was warm, soft and surprisingly feminine, that flowery scent an ever so pressing manifestation of her presence.  
He didn’t know where to put his hands and was suddenly wide awake.  
Staring at the ceiling, thinking about...anything else, really. Blood and gore, gruesome wars of ancient pasts…  
Damn it! She’s covered in bruises, too young and too… pure, you utter creep, how can you even think of her in that way?  
His body didn’t seem to agree with him, which made him utterly frustrated.  
Sure, absolutely natural, he argued with himself; it had been a long time since he last felt the touch of a woman... a really long time… But this! Dirthara was just a girl!  
Algebra. What was the system of linear equations describing this peculiar situation? Sweaty, sticky and stuck, hair in his mouth, entangled in sheets, her legs and arms, and she had been drooling on his shoulder… So many variables, and what was it he was trying to figure out really?  
A knock on the door. Of course somebody had to knock on the door. Solas grunted and slithered out of Dirthara’s embrace, trying his hardest to not wake her up. She muttered something in her sleep, pulled the sheets over her shoulder and rolled over to the other side. Solas froze, waited for her breathing to slow down before he let out a sigh of relief. Avoiding the squeaky floorboard, he tiptoed across the room to the door and half-opened it - partially to hide this humiliating memento to his mortality standing at attention in his pants, partially because he wasn’t expecting visitors. The cool air outside was surprisingly refreshing. He inhaled greedily, as if the house was running out of oxygen.  
“You look like crap, Chuckles.” Varric pushed Solas to the side and walked in.  
“Good morning to you too”, Solas muttered and closed the door slowly, a reason to both keep his back turned towards Varric and get another breath of that refreshing morning air. If it’d been his choice, the door could have stayed open, the heat indoors made him feel sluggish - but with Dirthara in the house he had to make some compromises. Like the fire in the hearth that had been burning all night, for example.  
“How’s our patient doing?” Varric threw himself into the chair by the desk just like he did the day before, put his feet up and leaned backwards. “And why the heck is it so hot in here, and why are you not wearing a shirt?”  
“Excuse me?” Solas snorted and rubbed his face with one hand. “Our patient? She’s just fine, thank you very much. Fast asleep.” Solas pointed towards the bed before he continued. “Which I, evidently, am not. She kept me up all night. This heat is not my idea of a pleasant ambience either, hence the lack of shirt.”  
Varric chuckled. “Heat, huh? That’s also a way to put it. You dog you. I knew you’d give in to the urges at some point.”  
Solas grunted and rolled his eyes. “Did you by any chance know that she suffers from night terrors? I would have prefered to have been informed.”  
Varric didn’t seem overly convinced by Solas’ explanation, maybe because it wasn’t completely true. Nothing of what Varric suggested had happened, but Solas couldn’t deny that his body thought that it would have been a great idea. The scent of her - a brief hint of lily of the valley - refused to leave his nose.  
“Well, she did mention that she sometimes have trouble sleeping”, Varric pointed out, but with a very insinuating grin on his face. “She looks rather peaceful now though, doesn’t she?”  
Solas just shook his head, grabbed his tunic and walked outside. The cold air made it easier to think and breathe, and he needed to wash up. After such a night he wouldn’t even like to be his own company.  
It didn’t take long for the door to open again, this time with Varric coming out of Solas’ house. “Night terrors, huh?” The dwarf looked like he finally took Solas’ words seriously. “I mean, not that I know what that means, but it sounds…”  
“You write books, Varric.” Solas grabbed a handful of snow and scrubbed himself with it as if the scent of her couldn’t come off with ordinary soap. The tiny ice crystals scratched against his skin before it melted into water and mixed with the lather. “Think of it as the worst thing that could happen to one of your characters, with the difference that it happens to you, in your head, and there’s nothing you can do but kicking and screaming.”  
“Well, shit.”  
“Precisely.” Solas grabbed the pitcher of water beside him, took a deep breath before he poured the ice cold water over his head. The shock made him gasp for air, but the sensation was so refreshing, woke him up and sharpened his senses. He reached for the tunic and dried his face and neck with it.  
“So, how did you deal with it?” Varric studied him curiously, but probably because of the cold water and not because he really wanted to know about how to handle night terrors.  
“I had to wake her up in the…”  
“...Fade. Of course.” Varric cleared his throat.  
Solas chuckled and wiped some water off his shoulders and arms. “Could you please excuse me for a moment while I put on some dry clothes? I’ll be right back, I have some questions about your book.”  
“Of course you do.”

A couple of hours later, when Dirthara walked out from Solas’ house and squinted towards the midday sun with a yawn, they were still talking, but their subject had changed into dwarven culture. Solas looked up and gave her a scrutinous glance. She was at least getting better. It had been almost two weeks since the… Fire. Solas didn’t want to think of it in any other way right now. Her face was still bruised, but the swelling had gone down. When she noticed that he was studying her though, she looked away. “I have to get some new… well, everything, really.” She made a gesture towards the lent clothes she was wearing, all of it made for Solas. It was by that a couple of sizes too large for her, but that didn’t mean that it looked bad. “You two should prepare for another trip, we’re leaving for Redcliffe in the morning.”  
“I take it you’ve decided to join forces with the renegade mages.” Solas nodded slowly, that could be a really useful alliance. Useful, but dangerous. It might cause more than a little turbulence - not only within the Inquisition, outside of it too.  
Varric grunted and made a foul grimace. “Seeker won’t like that.”  
“I know.” Dirthara lifted her chin. “We need the mages as much as they need us. They’re our safest card.” She turned around without further comments and walked away.  
“She’s starting to sound a lot like a gambler!” Varric whistled and shook his head. “Trouble suits her. If I were you I’d watch out.”  
Solas snorted, but he couldn’t help but feeling a bit worried. Dirthara was far from fully recovered. This was hardly a good idea.  
It was late when she finally returned. Solas sat by the desk studying the map, didn’t look up when he heard her familiar dislodging wrench in the doorknob followed by an almost inaudible entrance. A strange contrast that had made him jump from surprise more than once. “Ah, good. You’re back. I was meaning to ask you…” He lifted his head, looked towards the door and completely lost his train of thought. For the first time since they met Dirthara was outfitted in something that was actually tailor made for her. Every seam accentuated her shape. She was not noticing his reaction, luckily, as she was busy taking her boots off just inside the closed door. At that moment he realized that she never was just a little girl.  
Yes, well, he might have come to that conclusion earlier that very morning, but at this point it was beyond obvious. Yes, petite, but still a woman. On the positive side, that made him feel a little less of a creep, but... Well, she was still much younger than himself.  
“Yes?” Dirthara stood up and looked back at him, chin slightly lifted as if she was getting ready for a fight.  
“Ah. That armor looks… nicely crafted, but are you sure about tomorrow?” White and light blue. Those colors matched her own palette a bit too well to just be a coincidence. Was that nugskin? And a new staff on her back, well she would need one, Solas didn’t have one extra to lend her.  
“I have to get back in the saddle - you said so yourself.” Dirthara crossed her arms over her chest, the healing crack in her lip only emphasizing her stern facial expression.  
“And at the same time, bruises and a broken rib does make quite the difference.” Solas stood up from his seat, mostly out of restless frustration, didn’t really have anything better to do which was why he moved towards the fireplace. It was already too hot for his taste and there was a healthy fire on the hearth, but he needed something to do just to seem occupied. He crouched down in front of it. “It will be difficult to use some of your spells when you can’t move as unhindered as you are used to.”  
“Which I hardly will need anyway”, Dirthara pointed out, “it is after all nothing but a meeting to reach an agreement about a potential alliance.”  
“With the word ‘potential’ being strongly accentuated.” Solas reached for more firewood and threw it on the fire. “Never underestimate a situation, that would be reckless.”  
“They called upon us, not the other way around.” Dirthara sat down on the floor beside him and stretched her feet towards the fire, wiggled her toes just like she’d done so many times before. Feet that were attached to a pair of muscular, slender legs... Solas cleared his throat.  
“The only reason they have to turn their backs on us now is if they can find an even stronger alliance”, she continued, “which, with the latest events in fresh memory, I doubt they will.”  
“I guess you’re right. I’m sorry, I don’t trust people in general”, Solas snickered. She wasn’t going to bend, so instead he’d have to do what he could to help her. “We will both need a full night's sleep however, and I think I have a solution for that.”  
Dirthara turned her face towards him and their eyes met. For a second it felt like he couldn’t breathe, as if he was about to drown. He cleared his throat and looked away. “I will have to accompany you into your dreams.”  
“That is out of the question.” Her voice sounded weak in contrast to her strong words.  
“Your night terrors kept me up all night, Dirthara”, Solas explained, “I wish to help you fend them off if they return.”  
“You’ve seen enough of my dreams as it is”, Dirthara protested and sighed. “Alright. I’m sorry, that was selfish of me.”  
Ah. Privacy. Of course.  
“I promise that I won’t disturb you. I will be… reading a book or something.”

Dirthara

When she woke up, Solas was still fast asleep, breathing softly lying on his back with one arm under his head. He looked so peaceful with his eyes closed, still serious but not so brooding. Not the usual kind of person she would befriend, she had a tendency to be drawn to people with a bit more audacity. At first glance, Dirthara assumed that Solas could appear boring, strict and somewhat aloof; one had to really look for the subtle gestures to understand how generous and kind he really was. Like now - sharing everything with her, a person he’d known for just a couple of months, just because she was in need. For a man who valued his privacy as much as he did, that was admirable.  
Huh, she hadn’t noticed before, but his eyelashes was surprisingly long and thick. The same dark brown color as his brows. She always had imagined that he would be blond if he let his hair grow, but that didn’t seem to be the case. He-heh, and he had freckles. Cute.  
She reached her hand out, was just about to gently stroke a finger along the bridge of his nose when she pulled her hand back. Personal space. Right. He was as fond of his privacy as she was.  
And to be honest, when she had gotten to know him, he was actually kind of humorous. In a witty, rather sarcastic way, but still. When he let that polished mask fall, he could be rather frank. And proud. She wondered if had been given the name Solas as a child or if he had chosen it for himself, later in life as a reminder. Because, let’s be honest: he could be a proud bastard. In his eyes she was probably nothing but a little Dalish girl who needed comfort when sad or afraid. A thought that actually pained her for some reason.  
Well… He must be about twice her age, somewhere in his mid- to late thirties or maybe even early forties - of course he was treating her like a child. With a Dalish perspective, he could have been her father. In his subtle way he’d been making that very obvious.  
Dirthara furrowed her brows, confused about her own thoughts and reactions. She should get ready instead of… well, whatever this was that she was doing. She sat up and was about to climb over Solas to get out of the bed when she fell back towards the pillows with a pained curse.  
No. She wouldn’t let him be right in this matter. Dirthara hissed and made a new effort, this time a little slower, relieved that Solas was still asleep. If he’d seen her struggle just to get out of bed, known how painful it was to breathe, he’d never let her go through with this. They needed to get back to work, however. Time was not their ally and Dirthara’s notebook was a harsh reminder of how much they had to do. Most of all: she needed this. Something to take her mind off…  
A glimpse of Farras as he used to be made her choke. It was all her fault. Pain. She deserved it.

The sun had just reached over the hewy red mountain tops of Redcliffe when they broke up camp. Dirthara, Solas, Varric and Iron Bull. Cassandra and Dirthara didn’t see eye to eye at the moment (Cassandra didn’t approve of Dirthara’s choice concerning the rebel mages), and the Qunari filled her spot with plentitude. Surrounded by only men, the conversations took a completely different turn though, but the ambiance in their group was still irrepressible. The dialogues were nondiscriminatory, despite the subjects, even though the banter became rougher than usual.  
As their odd troop walked along the northern shore of Lake Calenhad, Solas and Iron Bull returned to a conversation from the day before:  
“So, I’ve been thinking, Solas. You wanna know how this place would be if the Qunari took charge?” Iron Bull’s words resulted in a frustrated grunt from Varric.  
“Orlais, Ferelden, all of it would be healthier under the Qun. But the war to make that happen? Ugly. A lot of good people would die.” Iron Bull paused. “So, what I’m saying is that I hope it doesn’t happen. There! You happy?”  
“Happy?” Solas chuckled, which was rather contradictory. They all knew his thoughts on the Qun from yesterday. “No, quite the opposite.”  
Iron Bull stopped walking and sighed. “Oh, come on. I said I didn’t want us to invade you!”  
Dirthara snickered and threw a glance over her shoulder at her three companions. “He did, Solas. You have to at least give him credit for that.” Varric looked like he’d wished he’d been anyplace else, but grinned at Dirthara’s reply.  
“No.” Solas shook his head. “He said that this world would be brighter if all thinking individuals were stripped of individuality.”  
“He’s got a point though”, Varric stated, but from the look on his face it was just to provoke Solas. “If everybody think alike, there’s no need for war, poverty, government…”  
“If the principles doesn’t work under the Qun as it is, why would it be different here?” Solas wanted to know. “At least now the people have the freedom to choose for themselves.”  
“Choose?” Iron Bull laughed and took a couple of long strides to be back in the midst of the group. “Choose what? To do their work or be tossed out in the street to starve?”  
“Yes! If a Ferelden servant decides his calling is to become a…” Solas paused while finding a fitting occupation, sounded as if he personally was engaged in a particular former servant's life choices when he spoke again. “...to become a poet, he can follow that dream!”  
“On second thought, Bull, I’ve changed my mind.” Varric, suddenly equally engaged in the hypothetical starving servant. “If he wants to be a poet, let him be a poet.”  
Iron Bull grunted. “Sure. Good for him. How many servants actually go do that though?”  
“Hold that thought, Iron Bull.” Solas turned to Dirthara. “Rift ahead, over there just behind those cliffs.”  
“And I actually believed this would be one of those beautiful days…” Dirthara muttered and reached behind her back for the staff. She hid the pain in her side behind a stern face and kept walking. “I mean, this area is breathtaking and the weather is perfect. But of course there’s a rift. Why not make it two.”  
Solas had been right. She was not yet well enough for this kind of expeditions. They’d been out for a week and the bruises had started to heal up nicely, but the broken rib caused so much pain it was an obstacle, at least in the mornings. So far she’d managed to hide the fact that she couldn’t swing her staff in certain manners to cast more intricate spells, but she couldn’t avoid breathing. A pity, really.  
They ran up the hill and rounded the rocky cliff, welcomed in a rather violent manner by both demons and…  
“What on Thedas?” Varric expressed what Dirthara felt. Sure, they seemed to be people, but their armor was something she’d never seen before. Mages muttering their spells in an unfamiliar language; men tall as houses and just as wide shouldered. This was something she wasn’t prepared for.  
“Venatori”, Iron Bull muttered and lifted his huge hammer. “This will be a tough fight, people.”  
He was right. Dirthara forced herself beyond her limits, pain nothing more than her price to pay, but her endurance took a heavy blow. The pain was a reminder, and she needed to remember. Every action had consequences; as long as she was fending for her life or the life of her friends, at least the goal wasn’t narcissistic. She fought, paid the price in blood and pain, and with adrenaline pumping through her veins she had to go further and further for that reminder. Her staff was meant for ranged attacks, but the blade on the bottom end became very useful. Ramming the Venatori mages with that pointy end put them - if nothing else - out of balance long enough to lose concentration.  
It wasn’t until she stood in front of the rift, waiting for something more to come out of it, that she realized that this was it. It became such an anticlimax to close it, even though it completely drained her of all her energy. Panting and lightheaded she was already searching for the next thing to attack. Another rift, perhaps? Something - anything. Dirthara chose a fast pace up the path.  
“I’ve been wondering”, Iron Bull began with a rather puzzled tone in his voice, “That maniacal laughter. Is that a tactical thing, Boss?”  
Maniacal laughter? Dirthara wiped some blood off her face - none of it her own. “Yeah.”  
“Irrational behaviour causes confusion and fear, which hinders the enemy from doing wise tactical choices.” Solas snorted, didn’t sound even the slightest bit convinced. “Good point, but you should be more careful next time, Herald. You’re not built for close combat.”  
Varric chuckled behind her back. “So, you finally see it, huh?”  
“Redcliffe? Yes, it’s right there.” Solas sounded surprisingly annoyed.  
“Don’t be silly, Chuckles. I’m talking about her kissable lips and the sway of her hips.”  
“I’m not even…” Solas grunted, which opened up for another attack of laughter from Varric. This caused some disturbance in Dirthara however. Of course Solas wasn’t looking at her in that manner, he stood above such things.  
“Master Tethras, it’s never that simple”, Iron Bull interfered, “You have to see beyond that.”  
Dirthara made an obscene gesture towards the three men over her shoulder. “Stop looking at my ass.”  
“I wasn’t even…” Solas was hastily interrupted by Varric.  
“I’ve told you before, kid. I’m too short to see anything but asses.”  
“And there’s more to a woman than that”, Iron Bull pointed out, upon which Dirthara chuckled.  
“Well, what a surprise. Let’s hear about it.”  
“For example, take a look at Boss’ coat.” Iron Bull sounded surprisingly excited, and Dirthara knew this would be one of his longer speeches. “It’s made of white - well, it used to be anyway - leather, the cut is strict but underlines her femininity. The choice of material and cut shows that she’s a force to be reckoned with, just as she is, but the color is a blank canvas. Well not anymore. Her victories and losses will all be shown, because cuts can never be washed or polished away from white leather, and blood will only deepen those cuts.”  
A little too close to home. Dirthara didn’t know one could read all that out of her clothes alone, and it made her feel slightly uncomfortable.  
“But then you see all those small silver buttons in her vest. A gift wrapping, opened slowly, one button at the time….”  
“That’s quite enough, Bull.” Solas sounded as he was trying to keep civil, even though he was bothered by the conversation, then he snickered. “She’s our Herald, let’s keep it like that.”  
“Oh, right. Sorry, Boss.”  
“It’s alright, Bull.”  
“You got all that out of studying her clothes?” Varric was perplexed. “How… What…?”  
“Hissrad for Ben-Hassrath, remember?” Iron Bull chuckled. “It’s my job to look into details.”  
“You should write books, Bull.”  
“Rift ahead.” This time Dirthara saw it first, and she was already running ahead when the rest of the group reacted. “Ooh, and Venatori!”  
“Wait! There’s something…” Dirthara didn’t hear Solas’ end that sentence, the adrenaline was already making her fly over the grassy path as if her pumping muscles were inexhaustible.  
A quick spin with her staff and a wall of fire separated her from the attacking Venatori agents. A jolt of Immolate thrown in the midst of it, causing the enemy to pop like corn on the fire in a loud explosion. In the chaos, two of them ran straight through her firewall. Some Flashfire adding blistering pain with a hint of iron oxide and aluminum, straight in their faces - yes, that got the job done. The flames burned brighter and hotter, the blazing trails harming all of them. Getting closer, her heart pounding, the blade on her staff still wet from before. A hard thrust and the first agent was pinned on the pointy end of her staff, but the force from the blow made her gasp from pain and see stars before she bit her jaws tightly together and grinned. Maniacal laughter, huh? She snickered and kicked the dead body off the spear end of her staff before turning to her next victim, disappointed to see that Iron Bull had already taken him down.  
“He was mine!” She argued, “I had the situation under control!”  
“Don’t be greedy. Share the fun, Boss.” Iron Bull delivered a heavy blow through the skull to the next attacking agent.


	7. Mages

Solas

Blood. So much blood everywhere. Her rage, it was starting to become difficult to handle. Shouldn’t she at least be a bit suspicious about the fact that there were mages from Tevinter causing havoc in Ferelden? Shouldn’t this bloodshed concern her? Her conscience, it would hardly be a lighter burden if she kept on fighting like this. Venatori agents beaten into bloody pulps, creatures of the fade being attacked as if they were abominations. She went from one goal to another as if that was her engine; every mission on her list crossed over only made her hungry for more. Tactics, had she never heard of tactics? This was turning into a bloody mess, and she was running head first into it.  
Solas had seen her dreams, even though he tried to stay out of them as much as he could. Every night the same dreams repeating themselves. An autumn forest with two children playing, a read haired boy, about the age of ten and a younger blond girl with a mouth a bit too wide for her face. He saw how deep the cuts had gone, and he could feel her pain. He knew why she was lashing out like this, could understand how the pain in her soul would feel thin and watered-down compared to the direct pain her body had to endure, but that was a shortsighted solution that made more harm than good. He’d been in her shoes, and it troubled him still; did she really have to make the same mistakes? Solas knew he shouldn’t worry about her, Dirthara could handle herself, but this? Pitch black eyes and that grin on her face, the belligerence with which she charged from her first assault to the next. She wouldn’t listen, was acting on some kind of raw, base emotion that…  
Add there she went off again.  
“Dirthara!”  
Already far ahead towards the rift further up the mountain, not even turning around to listen.  
No, this wasn’t powered by emotion. Her focus was even and solid, her connection to the fade a constant tingle; she wasn’t dropping her concentration for pure berserk. Her stamina was taking a toll though. She had chosen not to listen, didn’t want to stop. She was young, he could yet again blame her age, but she was fighting with a different ferocity since… Well, she loved Farras, that was obvious, and she blamed herself for his death. A feeling Solas was very familiar with. Still, she must have sensed…?  
No, she couldn’t have, in that case she wouldn’t have run off like that. Too much pain clouding her senses. She couldn’t feel it. Something was amiss, there was a strange vibration, and she hadn’t noticed. He had to get through to her before something really bad happened.  
“Dirthara!” Solas followed her up the hill towards the rift, the strange tingle growing stronger the further he got. A pride demon emerged to his right; Solas didn’t even hesitate. Almost vindictive; when it came to Pride he was very unforgiving. A quick snap with his hand threw a strong Winter’s Grasp, causing the demon to halt - frozen solid. Iron Bull pitched in and dealt the final blow as Solas fade stepped up a steep cliff.  
“Herald!” He could see her, still far ahead with her hand lifted towards the rift, the loud hissing sound from the energy being pulled out of her. It just kept going, without ever reaching an end. The rift didn’t close, nothing happened.  
From all directions, enemies approaching. Maybe she would listen now?  
“Solas!” Determination rather than desperation in her voice, but her clamor made his heart skip a beat. Another fade step to get close enough to throw a barrier around her.  
“I’m right here, Dirthara”, he clamored. Winter’s Grasp, a trusted spell, then an ice glyph to keep the rest at bay before he summoned an ice storm. Behind him, Varric and Iron Bull was charging up the hill.  
“I can’t close the rift!” Dirthara had to shout to be heard over the flowing sound from the rift pulling veilfire out of her hand, but she was calm. Still steady, even though she looked pale.  
“Then try to open it instead”, Solas shouted back, “It might let another pride demon through, but we can handle it!”  
Dirthara nodded. “Alright everyone. Are you ready?”  
Varric loaded Bianca. “Yup.”  
Iron Bull cursed loudly. “More demons? Yeah, sure. Lots of fun.”  
When Dirthara moved her hand and the connection between her and and the rift was broken, a loud bang followed. Three wraiths and a despair demon emerged. Solas cursed between his teeth. Not because of the wraiths, they were nothing more than faded memories of long gone spirits, but Despair? A spirit of compassion forced out of its purpose! Pride was easier, there was so much pride in the world that knowledge didn’t have enough room, and towards Pride he felt the deepest repulsion. But Compassion! Solas grunted. It was either the demon or them, he couldn’t choose both.  
If not…  
The rift would pull the creatures back into the fade if it was closed before they died, they could play the defensive card.  
Solas raised a wall of ice in front of Dirthara. “Try closing it again”, he shouted, before he threw another barrier around her and took a fade step towards Iron Bull to assist him with the demon. A bolt whistled just over his head and hit a wraith to his side. Behind him he heard the slowly increasing buzz of veilfire being drawn out of Dirthara. He hoped she would withstand this, not let it drain her.  
“Like before. I freeze, you smash.” Solas threw another Winter’s grasp at their target, his conscience at least slightly better if he didn’t have to deal the final blow. Hopefully, The rift would close before...  
“Good tactics.” Iron Bull grinned and followed the instruction.  
Another loud bang. The creatures from the fade forced back to their realms under loud protests. Solas sighed from relief.  
The silence that followed was almost unnerving. It wasn’t just magic that was acting strange here, the birds were silent too. Dirthara bent forward, fell to her knees panting, Iron Bull was breathing heavily and Varric… Well Varric looked as if this just had been another picnic in the park. Kirkwall must be a horrible place, Solas thought to himself.  
Other than being exhausted, neither of them seemed even a little bit concerned. Didn’t anybody else notice?  
“We’re getting really good at this junk”, Varric stated as he sauntered towards Solas and Bull.  
“At least we’re using our capabilities efficiently”, Solas pointed out rather coldly, still looking at Dirthara. “Adequate killers, if that’s something to be proud of.”  
Varric furrowed his brows. “Hey, Chuckles, we’re alive, alright?”  
“They attacked us”, Iron Bull pointed out, “As long as it’s in self defence there’s no harm done.”  
“Of course.” Solas looked at the carnage around them. These had been people. If he’d use Dirthara’s own words from that first night in her dream, he’d say that they never gave these men a chance to change, become something else. She had chosen those words and he had been so impressed by her foresight, but how true were they when she was this willing to sacrifice them for her own goal? Was she fighting herself or was she fighting the enemy, that was the question.  
She wasn’t drained, he could sense that, but she didn’t have much energy left. He walked over to her, worried of course, but also making sure not to seem too eager. She looked like she was about to throw up, and he knew she didn’t want him to notice.  
And why did he care? All this concern about her; they had more pressing matters to deal with!  
“The village of Redcliffe is just ahead, we should get moving”, he murmured and offered her a hand. She turned her head and looked at it, hesitated, but didn’t take it. Stood up slowly, swallowed. Her face was as pale as a sheet and her movement sluggish.  
Yes, she was in pain, he knew that. She tried so hard to hide it - for what reason he didn’t know. He’d seen her grind her teeth as she got out of their tent every morning, heard her gasp from surprise with every sudden movement. He wanted to tell her that she didn’t need to be strong for the sake of pride, but didn’t. She wouldn’t approve, would do the opposite of whatever he’d suggest. Stubborn like a mule, she took a deep breath, as if she was taunting her broken body. This charade had to end.  
And now he did it again. Worried. Her well being was hardly his priority, was it? She was a grown woman who could take care of herself.  
“Let’s go then”, she replied and walked ahead.  
And he couldn’t help but notice just what Bull had pointed out. The cut in her coat accentuated everything about her.

“Nobody knew you were coming, Herald.”  
Leliana’s agent was whispering, and the confused look on his face made Solas notice what was wrong. Everything was… out of sync. The rhythm and tune didn’t match, time seemed to both be and not be as if the Fade had materialized itself in the material world. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was that caused this change, but he had been right. Something was amiss. He didn’t like this, not one bit.  
“Maybe we should leave”, he murmured, “I know this was your first choice, Dirthara but…”  
“The Templars? Really?” She turned her head and looked at him, first as if she was regarding his perspective, then she shook her head and snickered. “I know what you’re thinking Solas. Yes, something is rather… strange here, and no. We’re not leaving. Two reasons: I didn’t travel all the way here on foot to just turn back empty handed, and I really want to know what’s going on.”  
“Well then.” Solas sighed. He could argue with her about this, but it would take forever and she wouldn’t listen anyway. It would only make things worse.  
One thing was relieving though: the leader of their mismatched group was observant enough despite her tactics to have noticed that strange vibration surrounding this area. Maybe that would have to be enough for now. “We should try to find Grand Enchanter Fiona then”, he added.  
“No need.” Leliana’s agent turned his head and presented a smug grin. “We’ve arranged a meeting…”  
An elf mage dressed in robes stepped up behind him, as if he’d been waiting for his cue. A young man, not much older than Dirthara, but quite obviously a circle mage. His expression was close-bitten and he kept looking over his shoulder as if he was expecting to be interrupted. “Yes. We couldn’t send you home without at least listen to what you have to say, Herald”, the mage murmured, “the Grand Enchanter will meet with you in The Gull and Lantern.”  
“We’re meeting with her in a tavern?” Varric furrowed his eyebrows, and Solas was bound to agree. That was rather suspicious, as if things weren’t weird enough already.  
“Yes, just follow the path down the hill and…” Leliana’s scout pointed them in the right direction, but was interrupted by Varric.  
“Yes, I know the place. Thank you very much.”  
Dirthara was remarkably quiet, but took the lead without a question. Solas noticed her lifted shoulders and how her eyes kept darting from side to side along the road as their group made a slow but steady descent towards the village.  
“A secret meeting in a tavern, mages keeping watch in the towers by the gates with the help of Red’s scouts, people whispering in the streets.” Iron Bull grunted. “Where are all the guards?”  
Huh, that was a rather interesting observation. Solas hadn’t realized. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad idea to band up with that… mercenary after all. Varric had a pair of keen eyes too, but this Qunari saw other things. Solas might have been judging him a bit to hastily.  
“The Venatori you mentioned earlier, Iron Bull, they appear to hail from Tevinter”, Solas stated silently. “Do you think they could have something to do with this?”  
“Yes, the Venatori is a cult of Tevinter nationalist supremacists, mainly mages”, Bull replied calmly, “The Chargers and I have clashed with them before back on Seheron. If they’re here, I’d say they’re causing it, whatever it is.” 

Dirthara

Her head was spinning and she found it hard to see things clear. Why was nothing ever straightforward and simple? She listened to the conversation between Bull and Solas on the way down to the village of Redcliffe, but wasn’t really focusing. The vibrations in the air were too overwhelming and confusing. In a way, it felt like she was dreaming, as if she was observing a scene rather than living it and she had to remind herself over and over that she needed to stay attentive. The vacant looks upon the faces of the renegade mages walking in the streets made that obvious. Something here was affecting them and if she lost concentration it would have the same effect on her. Surprisingly, Solas didn’t seem to be troubled by these vibrations. Maybe he stood above such things too, she thought to herself with a slight tone of bitterness.  
The Gull and Lantern wasn’t far from the harbor, but its exterior didn’t look like the kind of rugged place seafarers would go when reaching land. Lake Calenhad was of course just that - a lake - and the people owning boats in the area were primarily fishermen. Dirthara had expected something else hearing the name of the tavern. To be honest, her experience of that kind of establishments was limited to the inns she had stayed on while traveling to the conclave. In Kirkwall, the inns with names referring to the sea or the creatures living in its direct proximity were cheap and its inhabitants rather rowdy, not at all what she met when entering The Gull and Lantern.  
Mages. Everywhere she looked, people in robes; either engaged in mild mannered conversations or nose deep in a tome. She stopped just inside the door. Ferelden was nothing like The Free Marches.  
“Ah, you’re here.” An elven woman, talking with an Orlesian accent, approached. “The Herald of Andraste herself, I see.”  
Dirthara inspected the her scrutinously. Just as the last time they met, Fiona carried herself with dignity, had an air about her that breathed status, but something had happened since then. Now, there was a suspicious and puzzled look on her face and she spoke with a coldness that Dirthara found confusing.  
“Please, I’m just Dirthara Lavellan, an agent of the Inquisition. We were invited some time ago…”  
“Yes, personally by me, I’ve heard”, Fiona interrupted. “And yet I cannot say that I have seen your face before. It is said to me that we met in Val Royeaux, where I incidentally have not been in ages.”  
Dirthara was at a loss for words and cleared her throat. This was becoming more and more strange.  
“Yes, we’ve been told that we weren’t expected”, Solas filled in, which made Fiona blink.  
“I would have thought that you had met an impostor”, she said slowly, still looking at Solas. “But I sense that there are other machinations at work…”  
“A vibration in the space-time medium.” Solas nodded, but his explanatory words didn’t cause much understanding. Fiona, Iron Bull and Varric all looked at him as if he was going mad, Dirthara was the only one who didn’t know what to think. He used to be right, but what he’d just said wasn’t even comprehendible. Solas seemed disappointed when he didn’t get the reaction he had expected though.  
“Hm, whatever it is, I have a strange feeling…”, Fiona said after a short pause, then shook her head and continued. “The present circumstances have changed. I feared my peoples' annihilation and had to act fast. We have, for our services, been promised protection and...”  
She was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. She looked towards the entrance to the inn and gasped. The room went eerily silent and Dirthara turned around.  
Two tall men filled the opening, but the backlight from the sun outside made it hard for Dirthara to see anything but shapes at first. When they entered and the door closed behind them, she realized that they both wore that same strange kind of robes as the mages they had met outside of Redcliffe earlier. She could feel how every muscle in her shoulders tensed. Tevinter, once again.  
Fiona’s posture changed too. That self-confidence with which she moved before was gone in an instant, something that at least made Dirthara sure about one thing. This was a secret meeting, and the mages from Tevinter were not supposed to know about it.  
Dirthara got a peculiar impression from the older of the two men though. He was already aware of her presence in Redcliffe - might even have expected her - and seemed remarkably satisfied about the whole situation. 

They were introduced; the Tevinter mages happened to be father and son. Magister Gereon Alexius, the elder of the two, was courteous enough, but was all too pleased with himself for Dirthara to feel comfortable in his presence. His son, Felix, appeared to be a peaceful and quiet man, but looked rather pale and stayed one step behind his father at all times.  
“Curious to see the arm of the Tevinter Imperium reach this far”, Dirthara stated after introductions were made, “it would almost seem deliberate.”  
“As well as it is curious to see an elf from the Free Marches building up an army in Ferelden.” Magister Alexius met her gaze with a humoured grin.  
Dirthara responded to his grin with one of her soft spoken workfaces. “Yes, I admit that it would seem strange. I was sent here to attend the Conclave. And yes, I am from the Free Marches; I assume you’ve heard about collapse of the Circle in Kirkwall? The ripples of that event have caused so much disturbance throughout Thedas, and the Conclave was supposed to help us all reach some kind of an agreement. The Inquisition turned out to be that answer.”  
“And yet, the Andrastian Chantry doesn’t seem to agree.” Alexius shook his head, as if feeling sorry for her, but the corners of his mouth were tilting upwards. He sighed. “I was here, I saw what Ferelden had come to. Of course I had to save my fellow mages in Ferelden from this…” The magister made a vague gesture with his hand, “This chaos.”  
“Of course! The shining night riding in on his valiant steed”, Dirthara replied, “Don’t tell me you decided to choose the side of the rebel mages for the sake of your kind heart.”  
“Of course not.” The Magister smiled and offered her to sit down as he pulled out a chair for himself. “Your Inquisition have reasons too for being here, have you not?”  
Dirthara hesitated, then followed his example. “We need their alliance. What is it you need?”

After that, their conversation took a strange turn. Magister Alexius offered to lend her the mages, as if he owned them, which naturally caused some disturbance with Fiona. With Dirthara too, that was certain, but she stayed collected; albeit rather confused by the dialogue she became the auditor of.  
Fiona had, truly, offered her own and her follower’s services to this Magister, with the hope of gaining citizenship in Tevinter. To her, fleeing was the only solution. What she seemed to have missed was the fineprint. They would, quite truly, be in his service.  
Magister Alexius brushed it all away as if it was a minor complication and returned his focus to Dirthara. “So, as you can see, we can make a deal”, he stated calmly. “How many do you need and what will I get in return?”  
An infuriating statement that made Dirthara boil of rage - she could feel the hot flashes in her face and had to concentrate deeply to stay calm. She was just about to give an answer when  
Just when the discussion was about to turn heated around the table, Felix, the Magister’s son, excused himself and stood up from the table. "I've been feeling a bit out of sorts lately", he explained calmly, a sentence that wasn't needed. The next second, his face turned white. The young man lost his balance and tumbled into their table, glasses and plates were tossed over the floor. Dirthara was quick enough to get to her feet before Felix fell over her.  
“Felix?” Magister Alexius’ concerned voice blended with the commotion of chairs crashing to the floor and shouts of surprise from the other mages in the room.  
Out of impulse, Dirthara took a step forward to grab the young man before he fell. His flailing arms found her shoulders, her arms rested around his waist, but Dirthara realized when the bulk of his body collapsed over her, that she was too small and he too large. Had it not been for him regaining his balance, he would have felled her and landed on top of her. The sudden motion had Dirthara curse from pain, however. Stars danced in front of her eyes and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. The young man, Felix, did of course not mean to harm her.  
“I’m truly sorry”, he said and took her hands in a gesture of support. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Are you hurt?”  
Dirthara shook her head but held her breath and bit her jaws tightly together. “Felix!” The Magister grabbed his son by the shoulder. “Don’t excuse yourself, you are ill! We’re leaving, you need your rest.”  
Felix gave Dirthara a serious look and let her go before he was dragged out of the tavern.  
Dirthara looked down in her hands. A crumpled up note.  
Fiona was standing silent with a distraught expression on her face. As soon as the door closed behind the two men from Tevinter, the room grew dead silent.  
“Are you alright?” Solas, again almost scrutinizing with that disapproving wrinkle between his eyebrows. He stood by her side with one hand resting on her shoulder, his words were not much more than a whisper.  
“Of course.” Dirthara straightened her back, but looked down at the piece of paper in her hand. Unfolded it and read it. Two sentences, hastily written down with a proper handwriting that belonged to a scholar. ‘Come to the Chantry. You are in danger.’  
Dirthara snickered and showed Solas the note as an answer to his question. “I’m perfectly fine.”  
“I’m serious, Dirthara. You are not fit to…” Solas sighed and shook his head. “We need to leave. Now.”  
Not fit to. So he finally chose to speak his mind. Of course he didn’t think she was ‘fit’ for this, what would he prefer her do? Go play with the other children outside?  
“No.” Dirthara sounded harsher than intended, and softened her voice. “Something here isn’t right and I want to find out what.”  
“Leliana’s agents can…”  
“Yes, her spies could of course give it a try, but we are here.” Dirthara interrupted, more frustrated by the thought of returning to Haven without both news and rest than she was of his dissatisfaction. She leaned closer and whispered, to make sure her words only reached Solas. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed: neither Varric nor Iron Bull seem to react to the… vibrations. I know you sense it as well as I do, which means it’s some sort of magical disorder, not only something concerning the Fade. You and I need to find out what this is all about.”  
Solas turned his head and gave Varric and Iron Bull a quick glance. They were sitting by the bar, one pint each in front of them on the counter.  
“Very well. Let’s go to the Chantry, but if things turn ugly you have to promise me to…” He paused and looked at her again, gave her shoulders a light squeeze before he let his hands fall to his sides. “Dirthara, you are too valuable to… all of us.”  
“Am I just a tool to be pointed in the right direction then?” Dirthara chuckled, but inside of her everything felt empty. A black hole growing and gnawing. Her purpose was what kept her going, the simple thought of responsibility. Yet, Solas words made her want to slap him in the face. He of all people…  
No, she shouldn’t put this on him. It was her. She saw hidden meanings in his words because she was frustrated. All this was easier to handle when she was out in the field - as long as she kept her body and mind occupied. Now, after being still for so long, her muscles were tensing up and her mind was following paths she prefered to forget for now. She knew what would come out of it and it made her restless, even though her body was weary.  
She always reached a new low when the adrenaline rush faded away.  
Her frustration didn’t have anything to do with Solas, so why would she let this go out over him? Dirthara shook her head. “I’m sorry, Solas, I know you mean well. Bull! Varric! We need to go. Now.”  
The Dwarf and the Qunari both looked rather disappointed, but emptied their pints and followed her out through the door. Solas walked by her side, lost in thoughts but still alert. 

They walked together as a troop through the doors to the chantry, neither of them sure what they would meet. Another rift was not far from their expectations, they seemed to show up everywhere along their track, but inside the chantry? Luckily, someone was already engaged in a fight in there. A rage demon and a rather dashing mage, to be exact. Dirthara stopped for a moment just inside the door, surprised. Was this the scholar that had sent her the note? Somehow, she had expected him to be… older. He was also the kind of man who seemed to expect to have all eyes on him at all times; every spell was thrown as if it was an intricate move in a dance. Not like other shemlen mages, who in Dirthara’s perspective, never pursued perfection, just the minimum possible as if more than that was unnecessary and too time consuming. This was something that Dirthara felt more familiar with, a flair and style a lot like her own. The man didn’t pause, but looked at them over his shoulder as they came in.  
“Ah, right on time.” A smile that went a bit too well with the rest of his exterieur. His eyes met Dirthara’s, and she held her breath for a moment. If there was such a thing as love at first sight, this man could make your knees weak, if his appearance wasn’t enough to make you faint. “Would you be so kind as to assist me?” he continued, as if he didn’t even realize what effect he had on people.  
Dirthara snorted and pulled her staff out. ”So this is why you sent us that note. You’re kidding me right?”  
“A joke, I presume?” The man threw fire at the demon, but was still looking at her. She just grinned back.  
Just as Varric had stated earlier, they were beginning to get very efficient. There wasn’t much thought needed as Dirthara went ahead to close the rift, but since her muscles had begun to cool, every action was a harsh reminder of her mortality. Solas’ warding glyph tingled on her skin, Varric’s bolts whistled around her ears and her own wall of fire separated herself from the demons around her. Iron Bull’s taunts pulled all the creatures towards him, upon which Solas summoned a storm of ice. It was a rather short fight, but still she was panting when it was all over, and she felt completely drained.  
“Fascinating!” The human mage. Dirthara turned around to face him, not sure if she should be on her guard or not. He was obviously from Tevinter, and this far she hadn’t had the best of experiences with people of the Empire.  
“How does that work, exactly?” the mage continued, while studying her face, then he chuckled. “You don’t know! You just wiggle your little fingers and - boom!”  
“I haven’t really had time to form a fully comprehensible process for experimenting through a scientific method, if that’s what you’re asking.” Dirthara put the staff back on her back, and was about to walk towards the man for a more formal greeting when Iron Bull put a hand on her shoulder.  
“Be careful, Boss. He’s Tevinter, and the pretty ones are the most dangerous.”  
“Thanks, Bull, I’ll keep that in mind.”  
“Your suspicious friend really knows how to coat his doubt in flattering words, Herald.” The man paused, then squinted at her. “Because that’s who you are, right? To be honest I was expecting someone a bit more…”  
“Heroic?” Dirthara shook Bull’s hand off her shoulder and met the man in the middle of the room. “Yes, quite amusing, isn’t it? There is a minor problem though. You do apparently know me, but I haven’t got the slightest idea of who you are.”  
The man snickered and shook his head. “Oh, where are my manners. I’m so sorry, a bit caught up in the moment I guess. Dorian of house Pavus, originally from Quarinus in the Tevinter Imperium.” A light bow, but for some reason the gesture was handled with a hint of sarcasm. “To be honest, I never expected the fabled Herald of Andraste to hold both power and beauty.”  
Solas grunted something behind her back, Varric chuckled and Dirthara’s grin was accompanied by a raised eyebrow. “Yes, and the fact that I’m an elf must just have slipped by. But neither you nor us are here for pleasantries and idle conversation.” She had to lift her face to be able to see him in the eyes; another tall man. She didn't know much about Tevinter, but this far its people seemed very large. Except for Krem, of course. He was just slightly taller than herself.  
“Ah, straight to business then.” Dorian cleared his throat and brushed away an invisible piece of mote from the shoulder of his robe.

Later, at the end of the same day, they were back at camp. They had all turned in for the night, Dirthara and Solas sharing tent as they had been doing for quite some time now. She had gotten quite used to these close quarters, didn’t even think about what the Keeper back in her clan would think of it anymore.  
“Solas?” Dirthara was lying on her back, staring out in the pitch black darkness.  
“Hmm?” He sounded like he was about to fall asleep.  
“Time magic, could that affect the fade too?”  
There was a pause, then a sigh. “I suppose, in a way. Why do you ask?”  
“Well, in the fade, time doesn’t seem to be linear, so I was thinking…” Dirthara didn’t end her sentence, just kept staring blindly while her thoughts spun around in her head like playing cats.  
“Yes, but it is still a reflection of the material world.” Solas spoke slowly, didn’t articulate as well as he normally did.  
“So generally, the fade won’t change, but its reflection will?”  
Solas chuckled a little. “You have a curious mind, lethallan. This is what you think of before you go to sleep?”  
Dirthara snorted. “Only when such unstable magic is used for such a petty reason. I don’t get it. Magister Alexius is a powerful mage, why would he take this huge risk just to get to me?”  
Another pause, then Solas spoke again. Slowly and distant minded, as if he wasn’t really knowing what he was saying.  
“You are a very impressive woman, Dirthara, even without your titles. The people crossing your path can either choose to love you or to fear you.”  
“That’s not…” Dirthara stopped talking abruptly, her eyes widened from surprise. He found her impressive? So what was all this fussing about then; he’d been watching over her like a hawk since… Well, since forever, really. “Do you fear me, Solas?”  
Another pause, but when he replied he sounded slightly less distant.  
“Sometimes, yes.”  
“But… Why?” His honesty was actually slightly hurtful.  
“Because…” Solas sighed, then started over. “Because you never cease to surprise me.”  
“And that’s a bad thing?”  
“No, that is also why I…” Dirthara could hear Solas turn around beside her in the darkness. “I am not easily surprised anymore, Dirthara. I enjoy your company. Now, let’s sleep. There’s a new day ahead of us.”

For some, sleep was easily pursued. For others, the thoughts kept spinning faster and faster until there wasn’t anything left to do but taking a walk. After spending a couple of hours in the tent, restlessly twisting and turning but not being able to get even a moment rest, Dirthara crawled out of the tent as quietly as possible. She remembered what Varric had called it. Plot bunnies. A very suiting expression.


	8. Hard in Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will have to be a break after this chapter; I'm drowning in stuff to do in real life for the moment. Will be back shortly though, promise. Sweetrolls for everyone!
> 
> //ThunderBot

Solas

“Well, of course it’s a trap.” Solas glared at Dorian across the table, didn’t know what he liked the least about that man. His groomed exterior had been easier to disregard when he didn’t have to see him on a daily basis, but since he’d moved to Haven... If Dorian hadn’t been such an intelligent man, Solas might have thought him shallow, and that would have made things easier. “You don’t have to express this louder, Pavus, we have eyes and ears of our own.”  
“Ah, Solas, there you are. You startled me.” Dorian only lifted one eyebrow, still with the corners of his mouth slightly tilted upwards. “You’re always so… Nondescript.”  
“Please, speak up! I cannot hear you over your outfit!” Solas reached for his cup of herbal tea, still as steaming hot as his own temper. Three days. It had just been three days, and this mage from Tevinter had already managed to slither his way into their close circle of friends. Varric adored the man, said that he was a natural gambler and storyteller, which from his perspective of course meant that the Vint liked wine just as much as himself, cheated at Wicked Grace without being caught and exaggerated every tale to such a dramatic extent that most of it was blatant lies. It was absolutely infuriating.  
“Measuring cocks again?” Sera was more or less hanging from the edge of their table looking more bored than ever. “This is bollocks. You’re both bollocks.”  
“You know what?” Blackwall leaned towards Sera and nudged her in the side, “They’re mages. I believe it’s called staves.”  
Sera snorted. “Yeah, and Inky’s got the longest one. Heh, heh, because of the tip, get it?”  
Blackwall laughed out loud and Solas just rolled his eyes.  
“Mind you, it’s not the size of the boat that matters, it’s the motion in the ocean.” Dorian emptied his glass of wine and waved for refills.  
“With all that sparkle you have to compensate for something”, Solas pointed out, which had both Sera and Blackwall falling to the floor from laughter.  
“Oh, my, if I didn’t know better I’d almost think you were curious.” Dorian offered him a smile and a wink. “You are of course welcome to examine the matter...”  
How vulgar. Solas wrinkled his nose and had a sip from his tea.  
Except for their little group of friends - well, friends from a rather wide perspective - the tavern was more or less empty. Varric was already getting slightly drunk, flirting with one of the serving girls by the bar and Iron Bull kept Dorian under a scrutinous watch that could make even the most distant minded tranquil nervous; a point of view that Solas liked. It was only Iron Bull; well, despite from Solas himself, of course; that had decided to stay sober this night, which in Solas’ book gave the Qunari even more credibility than he’d previously earned. As it had turned out, Bull was an admirable chess player and prefered that game to card games, which may have nudged him further up Solas’ list than his actions had.  
At the other end of the table Vivienne was yet again discussing with Dirthara and Cassandra the bad choice it was to bring more mages to Haven, a conversation that had been going on since the option had presented itself. Vivienne’s eyes were glossy and there was a rosy tone to her dark skinned cheeks, but she stayed composed. Well, the volume of her voice might be slightly louder, and by that her opinions not only thrown out there, so to speak. Cassandra mostly nodded in agreement by her side, but the well known edge of the Pentaghast seemed duller. Dirthara looked more and more stern, despite her level of intoxication. How many glasses of wine had there been - three? Four? Enough for her to for the first time since that fire have some color back on her cheeks. She was actually relaxed. Solas sipped carefully from his tea while studying their odd collection of people. From all walks of life and from all known races. If there had been a spirit, their flock would have been complete.  
“We are not leaving the mages in the hands of Magister Alexius”, Solas heard Dirthara protest. “It’s not just about recruiting them anymore, it’s about saving ourselves as much as it’s about saving them from a fate worse than death”, Dirthara continued. “You said so yourself, Vivienne: Mages are dangerous and should be recognized with appropriate respect. That’s why we need them on our side rather than against us.”  
Solas agreed. He was, on the other hand, the only one who knew how much work Dirthara put into her choices. All their prospects were picked to pieces and studied from several angles before she made a decision.  
“Yes, we will have to fight fire with fire”, Dorian pointed out, which made it clear to Solas that the Vint had been listening in on the conversation too.  
Or eavesdropping. Who knew?  
“But it’s a trap, you said so yourself”, Cassandra said with a slight slur, “it would be stupid to walk straight into it.”  
Everybody around the table turned their heads and looked at the three women. Even Varric returned, but he didn’t look like he was taking this as serious as he should. At the bottom line, this was what their conversations had been circling around for the last three days; since the return to Haven; and maybe it was about time that the matter was discussed properly.  
“Yes, it is a trap, it was from the very beginning”, Dorian replied, “Alexius wants our precious little Herald, and I doubt that it is for her beautiful eyes or her charms...”  
Dirthara smiled at that comment and sent the Vint a blow kiss across the table, which he caught in one hand and pressed towards his chest with a dramatic sigh. Solas grunted and gave Iron Bull a meaning glance. The Qunari just nodded back and rolled with his eyes.  
“...but since we know that it is a trap”, Dorian continued, “we could circumvent their operation and thus steal their most potent weapon from under their noses.”  
His words seemed to put everyone at ease. Well, everyone but Sera, who didn’t look overly satisfied.  
Dirthara took a deep breath, something Solas had noticed that she did when she needed to collect herself to stay calm, but the broken rib was still making even that difficult to her. She stoically hid her pain behind furrowed eyebrows and continued with a lower voice.  
“I wanted to discuss this with you tonight, because we’re running short of time. I’m leaving for Redcliffe in two days at the invitation from Magister Alexius. The formal matter is to continue our discussions from where we left off last time, but we all know that it will be dangerous. I will not force this upon anyone of you; Alexius invited me alone. I hope you understand though that I will need all the help I can get. Alexius is a dangerous man who dabbles with unstable magic. Dorian has personally asked to come along, Leliana has offered her help, Vivienne and Josephine are pulling their threads too, but other than that I’m standing alone until you take a step forward. I don’t want to force this upon anyone of you, so this will be your choice. You have two days, talk to me personally.” Dirthara stood up from her seat at the end of the table. “That is all.”  
As she walked towards the door, Solas left the table too and followed in her footsteps. The rest of the group stayed in silence.  
“Well, shit.”  
Ah, not Varric, of course. He would probably not even know what silence was; as he’d described it when Solas asked him, all the characters in his books were talking inside his head as soon as things grew too quiet.  
Outside it was cold and dark, the frost had formed into a thin crust over the snow making every step crackle under his feet as if he was walking on glass. The temperature had dropped drastically as the sun had gone down, and now when the stars shone on them from a bright sky, the air was cool but refreshing.  
Well, at least Solas thought so, still walking around barefoot; Dirthara’s shoulders rosa as she pulled the coat tighter around her. Two buttons and a strap as the only ornament on the back of the garment, resting on her hips just below the waist, another set of buttons on her shoulders, where her light golden curls were trailing their way out of her messy hairdo.  
Solas swallowed and looked away, not really sure of where he was looking. Towards the gate, the burnt remains of Dirthara’s house, the snow on the barricades.  
“You are not going to Redcliffe without me, just so you know. I want to see...” Solas started, the next moment he tumbled straight into her. She was much smaller than him, so where he managed to find his balance again, she didn’t.  
“Oh!” It was out of reflex he put his arms around her; and as he kept saying to himself afterwards, it was only to prevent her from falling that he kept her in his embrace. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t…”  
She lifted her face and looked up at him. Those blue eyes, Dorian was right. They were beautiful, and for a moment he felt like drowning.  
“I’m sorry”, Dirthara murmured, “I believe I’m a bit tipsy.”  
Solas held his breath for a second, didn’t know how to respond. When he exhaled, he felt like he had completely lost his ability to talk. Their breaths mixed in a steamy cloud between them, her lips parted; they really were kissable. Solas cleared his throat, as if that would help him clear his head. “I… I wasn’t looking.”  
“Thank you, Solas.” Every syllable leaving her mouth as if she was tasting them and they were covered in honey. He leaned closer, felt her breath against his skin, could smell the scent of wine. It had been so long, so very long since...  
This… This was far from appropriate. He couldn’t… There were matters to consider, and she would be a distraction. And if she found out? She was after all Dalish, how would she...  
No, she would disapprove. With that fiery temper, she would be furious.  
Solas loosened her out of his embrace, slowly. Took half a step backwards, still with one hand resting in the small of her back. Tried to break the tension in the air with a smile. Not too eager, keeping it civil. “Are you alright?”  
“If a warm embrace is your cure, then no”, she murmured, but she looked down at her feet and shivered as she crossed her arms over her chest. A wry smile before she raised her gaze again. “I’m most certainly dying.”  
Wait. Was she flirting? A warm embrace in the cold would be... Solas snickered and fought the impulse to follow her request. “Come on, let’s go home. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”  
“Tea. Yeah...” Dirthara snorted and started walking. “You proud bastard.”  
Solas moved up by her side, nudged her lightly with his elbow. “Tea is highly underestimated.”  
“Hm. Extremely suggestive. Steaming hot.” She nudged him back. “Pretty much the same thing.”  
Even though this was highly inappropriate and even though he knew these words came out of her mouth because of intoxication, Solas couldn’t remove a rather silly grin from his face. It stayed there as they walked side by side up the stairs towards his house. A warm, fuzzy feeling on the inside that made him feel slightly less alone. 

“This tea…” Dirthara sat by the fire dressed in one of Solas’ old knitted sweaters, warming her hands around the large tea cup. “It’s good, but this is false advertising, Solas.”  
“Varric is a better salesman than I am”, Solas replied with a chuckle as he placed his cup beside him on the floor. “He’d have you pay for it and convince you that you were having an extraordinary experience.”  
“And he’s not even connected to the fade. Impressive.” Dirthara hesitated, then sipped from her cup as she stared into the fire.  
“Are you talking about influencing?” Solas studied her face, followed the profile of her straight nose, the pucker of her lips, her chin and jawline. “Yes, if Varric was a Dreamer connected to the Fade, I’m sure he would be using such a trick.”  
Dirthara lowered her gaze into her tea and took a deep breath. “Fascinating, really. I wonder what it feels like to sleep without dreams. How is it even possible?”  
Solas turned his face and looked into the fire. He understood where her thoughts came from, but for her a dreamless night would only be possible if she was turned tranquil. “I’ve seen very little about the children of the stone in the Fade”, Solas began, knowing that this at least would make his next statement sound less suspicious. “They are constructed from a different stock, the last remains of the pillars of the world.”  
“But…” Dirthara sighed and in the periphery he saw her put down her teacup. “How can they be so similar to us and yet so different?”  
He looked at her profile again. “We are but biological creatures, just matured into different directions. We all have eyes and ears. Depending on how we’ve developed, some things are more important than others for survival.”  
Dirthara nodded slowly. “Like the eyes of an owl and the ears of a hare. So, their dreams are sacrificed for a stronger resistance to magic.”  
Well, not sacrificed really, but Solas didn’t want to correct her, he didn’t have a reference he’d like to share on the subject. Dwarves were purely material, elves ethereal and humans adaptive enough to be a little of both. It wasn’t so strange that humans held the power in this broken world.  
“So being tranquil would essentially mean that you become more like the dwarves?” She continued and turned her face. Their eyes met for a split second before Solas looked away.  
“The tranquil seem to have a keener eye for details in their work, fine motor skills close to dwarven abilities, but it could never be the same. We are part of the Fade, dwarves are not. Haven’t you noticed how tranquil don’t emote to anything? That’s because half of what they are have been removed. They are but motorized beings without fear and passion. They eat, sleep and work, but it’s only the material self that keeps going. An empty shell without a real understanding of what’s happening around them. They know danger, because they were taught what danger is, but they do not fear it.”  
“What does dwarven emotion come from then?”  
Solas snickered and lifted his teacup. “All these questions. You are just like…” He hesitated, put the cup to his lips and emptied it.  
“I'm just like what?” Dirthara wanted to know.  
Solas sighed. “You remind me of a spirit I once knew.”  
“I’d like to hear more about your research in the Fade sometime, Solas.” 

Dirthara

Butterflies! She managed to keep her voice calm, only by talking at a lower pitch and concentrating on her breathing - but all these butterflies in her chest! The intense awareness of Solas by her side; she could almost feel the warmth of his body radiating towards her, and he was at least two feet away; his eyes when he smiled, that shy look on his face when he snickered and looked down at his hands which almost always were busy with something. Beautiful hands with long, slender fingers, slightly calloused. She was pinned on his every word as if they were diamonds falling out of his mouth, asking questions about everything just to hear him speak. Flirting, just to hear his clever comebacks. Almost gave herself away...  
What was this? What was wrong with her? How did this come over her so abruptly?  
“To see the beauty of the fade, one have to search it in this world, you must reflect upon your own experience”, Solas murmured withóut looking away from the fire. “You wish to travel past your dreams, to follow paths you haven’t seen - you’re young, the challenge is to look beyond it.”  
An intense awareness of her own self, too. Her hair was in a mess, she had forgotten to cut her nails, there was still remnants of dried blood on her cuticles... Did she smell of blood and dirt? Nerves, all on the outside of her skin, every impression a jolt through her entire being. His voice, his accent, his beautiful choice of words that could make even the most heated curse sound like poetry.  
“You have to excuse me, Solas.” Dirthara stood up from the floor, hopefully not looking as confused as she felt. “I… I need to take a walk.”  
“Now?” Solas looked up, a somewhat amused expression on his face. “It’s in the middle of the night and freezing cold outside.”  
Dirthara nodded and grabbed her coat. “I know. I just need to…” Well, what did she need to do? Get some distance from him to be able to see things clearly, figure out what was going on. She could hardly say that, at least not until she knew what she wanted out of… this. “I need to think.”  
“Is it something I have said?” Solas stood up too, arms hanging helplessly along his sides and the curious smile had disappeared. Worried. Always so worried. Expecting the worst in every situation. And of course it was something he’d said, everything he’d said, every word, every syllable, every thought that slipped out of his enigmatic mind. Every subtle gesture. And especially...  
“No, it’s just…” Dirthara grabbed her coat and threw it around her shoulders. “I have to take a walk.”  
“Would you like me to come with you?”  
“No!” Dirthara sighed and snickered when she realized how desperate her response had sounded. “I haven’t been alone with my thoughts for a long time, Solas.”  
“Oh.” He looked surprised, but nodded. Bent down and reached for the tattered old plaid that was lying by his feet on the floor. He closed the gap between them with just a few steps and wrapped her up in the plaid. Carefully, as if he was handling something fragile, folded the woven cloth around her face, tucked it in under the collar of her coat. His hands rested just a moment longer than needed on her shoulders, then he smiled. “Out of privacy, due to unavoidable circumstances. I still don’t have any to spare.”  
And just for a moment Dirthara wanted to ask him to come along after all, didn’t want to leave the house without him by her side. He was her shadow as much as she was his.  
“Will you be alright?” she asked, as if they both would fall to pieces without the other one close by.  
Solas chuckled and scratched his neck, lowered his gaze to the floor. “I have been alone before, Dirthara.”  
“Oh. Right.” She could have kicked her own leg for not thinking straight. By the gods, he was a grown man who’d lived his life as a hermit in the forests, of course he could take care of himself for an hour or two. Dirthara hesitated before she turned around and moved towards the door. “Well then.”

Walking in circles, that was what it felt like. Well, she had been doing that too, following the paths around Haven’s palisades back and forth, but that was not the point. Returning to scenes she’d seen as unimportant before, searching herself for details. Somewhere along the line, her impression of Solas had changed drastically, and she needed to know when and why. Everything suddenly carried little hints of value.  
At first, she had been suspicious; he looked like a wandering monk but had the posture and knowledge of a Dalish keeper. And his timely appearance at the Conclave - if she was suspected of causing the destruction, why not him?  
The first little detail that came to mind was when he stayed to help, even though it meant a huge risk. He was after all an apostate surrounded by templars. He stayed, because she asked it of him.  
She had confided in him because he was the only thing remotely familiar to what she knew, and because he was the only one who could give her an educated estimate of the situation - based on facts nonetheless. An elf and a mage. That was only natural, how people worked.  
And yet, he was so different.  
Her second detail was curiosity. That was it. This was what had drawn her to his house that night when… Dirthara flinched as the memory of Farras flew by in her thoughts. She had to run. Had to make that pain go away. Rushed up the stairs towards the chantry, down again and out through the gates, every breath a burning torment. Not until this physical pain had taken Farras’ place did she stop, panting with the cold air like needles in her lungs. Not until then did she dare to return to that scene.  
That night when she woke up and found her house empty for once. An impulse, spurred on by fear. She had fled, and when she saw Solas through the window of his house it was like finding home. She didn’t know why, it had just been such a relief. Maybe it was the warm light from the candles, or how he bit his bottom lip while reading, concentrated on every word with a forgotten teacup in his hand. Something familiar and yet so different.  
After that she lost count. That first night alone was something out of the ordinary. The little moments rolled over her in droves; when he turned out to be quite humorous behind that courteous facade; when he turned out to be gentle and caring; when he turned out to be a dreamer, just like herself, only stronger. Much stronger, reaching further and deeper into the Fade than anyone she’d ever heard or read about - without effort even.  
Sure, he had temper. So did she. He was faster to forgive though than she was.  
But back then, she hadn’t thought of him in any other ways.  
Or had she? No. He was a friend.  
All the events leading up to this night, that short but very crucial moment outside the tavern when he almost… Because he was about to kiss her, wasn’t he?  
In that single instant, when he held her in his arms, something changed. All these little moments formed a picture, and she knew she wanted that kiss - well, her entire body was screaming for more than just that, and she had no idea where that feeling came from. The wine? That was at least what she had said.  
She realized that she had been too caught up in everything around her to even notice what was happening on the inside. All because she wanted to forget.  
Maybe that was why.  
No, this was nothing of value, nothing worth her time. She was to become a Keeper one day, she had to distance herself from these worldly things.  
This was plain, nothing with a deeper meaning. Lust? For a man twice her age? Well, he was rather attractive, in his own way.  
Lust. It had to be. The reasons were simple. He was available, always by her side. They were two lonely souls who happened to cross paths, nothing more, it was only natural. She should have noticed the effect he had on her earlier, but she had been too caught up.  
Brush it off, let it be, move on. She had other things to attend to, this diversion was hardly important.  
Well, despite the fact that her feelings seemed to respond a bit too well with his...  
No, don’t read anything into this that isn’t there. The way he looked at her, how he talked to her, how he always was there to comfort her. And lately, all this worry. The warmth with which he greeted her every morning, as if he’d been waiting for her. They were close friends, nothing more.  
...But if Varric had been right that day outside Redcliffe?  
Lust. Nothing more. They were on the same page, but she couldn’t handle him, couldn't trust herself...  
She would have to scare him away somehow.  
Dirthara stopped abruptly when a thought struck her like lightning.  
Ah.  
The truth.  
She had to show him everything.  
It would be painful but it was her only solution.

Well... Not all of it. She should tell him about Farras.


	9. A lone wolf

Solas

Back on the roads, towards Redcliffe again. The clear skies over his head, the trees and the scents of nature - it certainly made a lot of difference. The walls around the chantry in Haven still made Solas feel like a caged animal, even though the former templars under Cullen’s command had stopped glaring at him as if he was a potential murderer every time he passed them.   
And, most of all: his cramped quarters, where Dirthara’s presence reminded him every second how weak he really was. The last two days in Haven before they left for Redcliffe had been very awkward; so much so that Solas made up reasons to go outside; picking herbs for Adan, mixing potions, going errands for the shopkeep… Out here, there was never time for embarrassing silences, at least not until it was time to sleep. Solas wasn’t one of those people who could smalltalk his way out of these situations, but he had realized that Dirthara did. Hiding behind that smile and talking with that voice, she was conversing about everything from the weather to the War of the Lions and how that affected the little children. This was how she talked to people she didn’t know, and Solas would, quite frankly, prefer to be ignored.  
In her dreams he stayed occupied, kept out of her personal spheres of memories. He had thus far only dealt with four night terrors and they seemed to appear less often now than before. Most of the time he spent the night reading in forgotten tomes that the spirits found in the periphery of Dirthara’s dreams. Books that Dirthara or someone close to her must have read at some point, since they were found in her visions. Solas found them curious; especially her copy of Saga of Tyrdda Bright-Axe, Avvar-Mother, in which someone had scribbled notes everywhere, even between the lines. Parallels were drawn between Ghilan'nain and the Avvar’s Lady in the Skies, comments made about the possibility of dreamers sleeping for decades without the need for food or water and a vague reference to some book called Tome of the Slumbering Elders. It wasn’t written in Dirthara’s handwriting, so he found it all rather perplexing; who, besides her, would form these questions?

But yes, back in the fields. It had been raining for two days though, the paths had turned into mud and their camp was far from pleasant. Solas wouldn’t mind wet socks if that was the price to pay for all this open space.   
Dorian’s whining made it even better.  
“Ferelden. An unpolished gem that just couldn’t become more flawed”, the Tevinter mage muttered as they sat around the fire for their evening meal. He really looked like a drenched cat, huddled under a slightly too red hooded cape. “I never thought I would experience it’s captivating glory in the flesh.”  
Dirthara snickered. “You are adorable when you’re moping, did you know that? I could pinch your cheeks!” She also seemed to be the only one in their group that wasn't utterly frustrated with the weather. Sure, as always rolled into layers of plaids, but other than that she showed signs of better health than ever. Rosy cheeks and that mischievous glint in her eyes as if she was up to something very ill advised.  
“Yes, cheek pinching could certainly make this situation more bearable”, Dorian muttered in reply, but the corners of his mouth were tilting upwards. Always in need of attention, not so strange Varric called him Sparkles. For an instant there, Solas felt an urge to either strangle him or throw up, but instead he grinned towards him over the fire.  
“Surprising. I had no idea that was the only way to keep the Vints at bay”, he replied. In reality, Dorian had done nothing wrong, but there were limits to how much sugary frosting one could handle.   
Of course, Varric found the entire conversation amusing enough to start laughing. A drop of water had up until then slowly been growing from the tip of his crooked nose, but the dwarf’s shaking body caused it to fall.  
“Pulling them by their cheeks?” Dirthara raised one eyebrow and lifted her chin just slightly. “No, no, no. The wicked is either pulled by the ears or hunted down by a dog.”  
Solas flinched and looked away, cleared his throat. The Dalish fable of the Courser and the Wolf. From what Solas remembered, the dog supposedly caught the Dread Wolf by the tail, causing him to bite his own tail off before fleeing.  
“Sadly though, shemlens have too small ears to pull, and I don’t have a mabari who can catch them by the tail”, Dirthara continued with a theatrical sigh. Solas flinched again.  
“To be honest, I doubt Vints have tails too”, Varric added.  
“We have a Vint present, we could just end this discussion by studying our own specimen”, Solas grunted.  
“Will you be leading the project, Solas?” Dorian emptied his wine bottle without turning his gaze. “Promise to be gentle.”  
“Gentle?” Solas snorted and reached for one of the larger logs by the fire pit. “Very likely indeed.”  
“Menacing!” Dorian winked, upon which Solas looked away without really knowing how to react.   
“No, you’re my Vint, and therefore my responsibility”, Dirthara pointed out.  
“Oh, how curious! An elf owning a Vint”, Solas muttered and threw the log on the hissing fire. “Ferelden turns out to be more and more exotic by the minute.”  
“With an owner as fair as mine, I wouldn’t mind.” Dorian reached for another bottle of wine, but studied the label with furrowed eyebrows. “I will strongly protest against her choice of wine though.”  
Dirthara nudged Dorian with a wry smile. “Grant me a favor or two, and we can discuss the wine.”  
“You little minx”, Dorian snickered and put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s a deal.” He opened the bottle with one hand by pressing the cork into the bottle and drank from it, regardless of its label.  
Dirthara brushed a wet stray lock from her forehead with a shiver and snatched the bottle of wine out of Dorian’s hand.   
“Do you know how to handle wet clothes?” she asked and put the bottle to her lips.  
“Whatever Sparkles comes up with, I have a better idea. The night is young, but the weather not in our favour. Anyone up for a game of Wicked grace?” Varric pointed towards the tent he was sharing with Dorian. “We could probably fit in there, all of us.”  
“Yes, let’s all succumb to wine, women and gambling.” Solas stood up from his seat by the fire. “If you excuse me, I have a book which have been dying to see me all evening.”  
Varric grinned from ear to ear, but to be honest that was his most common expression. “Is that bitterness I hear?” he wondered innocently.  
“No, it was merely sarcasm. I assume you have heard of it?” Solas shook his head to get some droplets of water out of his ear. Why, oh why had he really been sitting out here this long when he could go into the tent, read under the dim light of a lantern and listen to the soothing sound of the rain? Better than experience it firsthand, and the dialogues would be less… nauseating.  
“Well, more room for us”, Dorian pointed out and stood up as well. “And more wine, for the matter.” He offered Dirthara his hand. “My lady.”  
Dirthara accepted it and followed his example. “Wicked grace? Count me in.”  
Solas could proceed to tell himself that he didn’t care, but he would be lying.

Solas woke up several hours later - it had to be, it wasn’t raining anymore and he could hear the birds waking up in the trees around their camp. He was dazed and confused, at first thinking it was time to get up, when Dirthara tumbled into their tent. She cursed and snickered in whispers, and soon enough he understood why. The air around her carried a scent of elfroot smoke. He was abruptly pulled out of his half slumber and sat up.  
“You are not going to sleep in that state”, he declared while rubbing his face.  
“Solas”, Dirthara slurred, “You’re awake?” From what he could hear in the pitch black tent, she tumbled over again with a loud thud and a grunt. “Damn it.”  
“Well, I am now.” Solas reached for the lantern and lit the wick with a snap of his fingers. His eyes needed time to adjust to the light, but even though he squinted he could see her perfectly fine. Her clothes were in shambles; her vest buttoned but all of it awry; and her hair was a complete mess with twigs and leaves sticking out of it.   
Her precious virtue.   
Right.   
He doubted that the Vint was worth it, wondered if he even was aware of what his shortsighted actions would cause. Solas wanted to strangle that shallow bastard even more than usual.  
“Great!” Dirthara didn’t seem to notice how Solas curled his fingers into fists around the fur in his bedroll. She sat down rather clumsily and pulled her boots off, would have kicked the lantern by mistake had it not been for Solas swift reflexes. “I’ve been thinking…”  
“Now?” Solas sneered and hung the lantern from the hook in the ceiling. “Highly unanticipated.”  
Dirthara didn’t seem to notice his sarcasm, she just kept talking as she snaked herself out of her coat, vest and pants without her normal modesty. Solas cleared his throat and looked away the second she began unbuttoning her shirt.  
“Yeah, you know the Golden City? It’s in the fade, right, but as we see it, it’s a tainted Black City.”  
“Go on.” Solas stared at his own feet, painfully aware of her presence.  
“You said that the Fade mirrors our material world…” She paused - as she pulled one of his worn tunics over her head he imagined - before she wrapped herself into his plaid. “So, somewhere in the material world there’s a black city, am I right?”  
Solas forgot to breathe and tensed up. A flutter in his stomach and the pulse a loud thump in his ears. He turned his face and looked at her, swallowed and fought his pulse back to normal. She was, as he had thought, wearing his tunic, but for once he was aware of her naked skin under that thin cloth. A disturbingly arousing thought interfering with his discomfort with the matter she had chosen to discuss. “That is a possibility, yes.”  
“So, hypothetically….” With her hair brush in one hand and a ribbon between her teeth she began the struggle with her hairdo. Hairpins pulled out, some of them hanging in her long tangled tendrils of light blond curls. The brush forced her unkempt hair back into submission, but with the ribbon in her mouth, Dirthara’s words were even more slurred now than before. “The darkspawn came through the Deep Roads, came to be in something tainted. Is it possible that the Black City is under ground?” She turned her face and looked at him, remarkably focused for someone intoxicated.  
“It depends.” Solas looked away again, couldn’t stand her bright blue eyes for the time being. “The Darkspawn draw their power from a different source. Not the Fade, that is”, he began. “In theory, that means we shouldn’t be able to see it in the Fade either.”  
“Ah, like the dwarves”, Dirthara added. In the periphery, he could see her braid her hair, forcing it back in line. “So, for us to be able to see it in the Fade, there has to be a strong dream of the material place. Either a dreamer shaping it into being or…” She paused. “What if they both exist? What if they both are parts of something bigger?”  
“Only partially built in the material world, you mean?” Solas had to concentrate to keep his voice calm. Inhale, two, three, four, exhale, six, seven, eight. She never ended to surprise him, but this was too bizarre to be true. His astonishment smudged with anxiety, her choice of words in combination with the lacking control of her limbs; hopefully she wouldn’t notice his state of mind. “A possibility, of course, but…”  
“Yes, I know, highly illogical”, Dirthara grunted. “There’s no reason to build something in that manner.”  
Solas sighed from relief, but his ease was quickly shattered when she threw herself backwards on top of her bedroll.   
“It’s just that… My logic tells me that they both exist, and since they're both tainted by the blight... There must be some kind of connection”, she murmured absentmindedly.  
The silence that followed felt like a wet blanket - heavy and uncomfortable. Dirthara was lost in thoughts, and Solas was waiting for her next outburst of words. Frightened of what her mind would dig up, confused, since he for once didn’t have a clue of what to do. There wasn’t a question about ‘if’ she would figure it all out anymore, it had drastically turned into a ‘when’, and Solas was well aware of how she would react when she did. It had been better if she had heard it from him, from the source, but that was too late now. She would turn her back on him, and how would he manage? Losing her would be…  
Dirthara sat up again, this time with her eyebrows furrowed. “I need to tell you something.”  
“I am listening.” Solas felt a sting of worry when he saw her facial expression. Serious, determined. She had something pressing on her mind. From one subject to the other, as the ideas popped into her head. As usual. No need to worry.  
“I need to clear my conscience, you see, and… well you are the only one who would understand”, she continued, as if his reply was never needed. “It’s just that… I don’t know where to begin.”  
Clear her conscience. She was a pure flower standing stoically in a storm, how bad could it be? Solas smiled from relief. “Presumably at the beginning.”

Dirthara

Elfroot, wine, anything to make this easier. She’d been trying to tell him for at least a week, but backed down before she’d even mustered enough courage to talk to him directly about more neutral things. The two days in Haven before they left for the Hinterlands once more felt like an eternity. Electricity and nerves. She couldn’t even discuss the weather with him without becoming a complete nerve wreck. His fingers brushing over hers when he offered her a blanket in the most innocent manner was enough for her to hold her breath. They were both trying to avoid the problem, she was noticing that too. A problem that became less prominent when he was angry. And from pure coincidence, she noticed something rather interesting. With Dorian around, Solas was easy to anger. It made her hope that maybe she could keep her secret for a little while longer.  
At least, that was what she had believed, until she returned to their tent at dawn. She was not just tipsy, she was drunk. And high on elfroot. Every muscle relaxed, a euphoric happiness that she hadn’t felt in years. 

When the rain had stopped around midnight, she had lost most of the money she was willing to lose. She was getting better at the game, but let’s face it: she’d never win against neither Varric nor Dorian. They were both too good at cheating, which she wasn’t. Yet. They were also out of wine, but Dirthara had a large stash of elfroot.  
“Now, I had planned to return this to Haven for medicinal purposes, but…” she pointed out as she convinced the two men to at least try it. Easily done, really. They were both slightly too fond of being intoxicated, it hardly mattered how they got there.  
“So this is why you’re so fascinated with this… herb.” Varric murmured as he drifted off with a silly grin on his face, “you could have told me sooner, kid.”  
“I suddenly feel an urge to sing to flowers”, Dorian snickered, “Maybe I should have been born as a Dalish elf.”  
“You would have been dashing, Dorian”, Dirthara replied, before she got the silly idea that maybe he should experience that certain Tevinter myth of the Dalish elves for real.   
One thing lead to another, and after a while Varric and Dorian didn’t seem to find it strange at all to dance around naked under the clear night sky either. Dorian laughing more about it than Varric though, pointing out that Dalish elves were just as he’d imagined.  
“No offence Inquisitor, but you have the worst singing voice I have ever heard”, he shouted towards the sky as he spun around in the wet grass with his arms raised in a V. “I think that’s why the flowers wouldn’t listen.”  
So, yes. She was moronically optimistic, out of breath, had no control over her limbs and had to concentrate on her every syllable to be able to form coherent words when she finally decided to crawl to bed. Of course Solas had to wake up.  
It really didn’t matter. She wore her chemical confidence as if it had been an armor, spoke to him as she used to, before that… hiccup.  
He had sounded irritated at first, studied her with that condemnatory wrinkle between his eyebrows. It wasn’t disappointment or anger in his eyes though - he looked hurt. As far as Dirthara knew, she hadn’t done anything to cause him pain - well, if his feelings for her were similar to what she felt for him, he would probably not enjoy her excessive flirting with Dorian.   
As if it mattered, Solas had made it perfectly clear…  
Words. Just words. Not even spoken. It got too obvious just moments later that it never were more than just that. His way of looking at her changed, even though he wasn’t very fond of the subject she wanted to discuss. They were back at where they started - electricity and nerves.  
It was time.   
“...I need to clear my conscience, you see, and… well you are the only one who would understand.” It was hard to think straight when he looked at her that way, she had to make him stop. It wasn’t fair, he had lifted her up on a pedestal as if she was something divine. Like everybody else. But where to begin?  
Then he smiled. That composed expression of affection could have made her change her mind, give it all up for just this one man. Did it really matter? There was so much at stake here, but was this really so bad? His soft-spoken words led her back to the right track however: “Presumably at the beginning.”  
Yes. He had become a diversion, and she needed to focus on the matter ahead. So did he, in fact. She was doing them both a favour. Never again should her ego come first. Her goals were not about prestige, hadn’t been for years - it was all about purpose.  
“At the beginning?” Dirthara sighed and curled a lock of hair around her fingers just to keep her hands busy. “Both my parents were mages. Their marriage caused much controversy…” Dirthara paused and shook her head, a nervous laughter forced itself out of her before she managed to stop it. This would hardly push him away, it would rather make him see things from her perspective. “Let me start over. My parents are hardly interesting for the story at large.”  
“It’s your story.” Solas leaned backwards and rested his weight on his arms. “To be honest, a story has neither a beginning nor an end, it’s all in the perspective of the viewer.”  
Dirthara snickered and threw her hairbrush at him. “You and Varric talk too much.”  
“It is true though”, Solas replied with a grin and caught the brush in one hand.  
Dirthara hesitated. “You know that moment when curiosity turns into knowledge and knowledge becomes pride?”  
Solas nodded. Maybe he carried his name for a reason? A reminder…   
“You start with something pure, something that excites your entire being”, he murmured. “Then come the mistakes.”  
“We create our own demons.” Dirthara trailed off, suddenly realizing how true that really was. If the Fade mirrored the material world, her demons would materialize in the Fade. What would her own reflection be? Her spirit, would it be twisted out of its purpose from her actions? And how about...  
“I should start with Farras”, she decided. The pain she had expected to feel was dulled, to her utmost satisfaction. However, the moment Dirthara mentioned his name, Solas flinched and sat up again, both eyes and fingers focused on the strands of blond hair stuck on the hairbrush in his hand. He must have seen enough of her dreams these last months to understand the close bond she used to have with the elf, and still he reacted the same way. He understood her way of thinking, but not her feelings. Of course he didn’t, not until now would he see the entire picture.   
“When Farras’ parents died, my father took him in”, she began, remembering his confused look when father brought him to their tent. Tears had formed white rivers over his dirty face, but the slingshot sticking up from his pocket looked new. It was painted red. “He was a clever boy and a quick learner, which is why he later became one of the few followers of Vir Banal’ras.”  
“The way of Shadow?” Solas cleared his throat. “I thought the Dalish assassins were a forgotten branch among the hunters.”  
“My father found many forgotten things in his travels”, Dirthara pointed out, a sentence that made Solas turn his head and study her face with a new intensity. Searching blue eyes with that light hue of green. Her head was spinning as it was to begin with, he hardly made it easier.  
“Your father?”   
“Gisharel. He was something of an eccentric.”  
“How do you mean?” Solas was still studying her with that intensity, as if there was a clue to the secret of life written on her face.   
Dirthara shrugged. “He was a restless soul. A wanderer. He originated from Clan Sabrae, left his position as first under Keeper Marethari in his youth to pursue the way of the Arcane Warrior. When he returned, he did so with some rather uncomfortable ideas which he delved into with all his spirit and vigor.”  
“I take it he wasn’t welcomed with open arms.”  
“In Clan Sabrae? No.” Dirthara took a deep breath to collect herself. “Enough about my father, he is and will always be in a state of innocent curiosity.”  
“Do you envy him for that?”  
Did she? Probably. On the other hand, it was always the thought of responsibility that forced her to move forward; her father had something else, a hunger that never seemed to be sated. What would she prefer?   
“I don’t know, maybe”, she murmured before she shook her head back to focus. “When I was fifteen, I was considered adult and chosen second. By that, my mother was no more. She became my teacher and I was dropped into the world without her wings over my head. Gisharel left for another expedition and all I had left was Farras; a man at twenty who used to be my brother, a man I wasn’t allowed to speak freely with anymore.”  
“Your mother is…” Solas didn’t have to end the sentence, he knew and Dirthara nodded.  
“Yes, my mother is Deshanna Istimaethoriel, Keeper of the Lavellan Clan. This is not important, however.”  
Solas smiled. “Is it not? Your clan is very different from all the others, much thanks to her.”  
Dirthara shook her head. “She stirred up disputes at every Arlathvehn until she discovered I was a dreamer.”  
“Ah.” The silence that followed was uncomfortable to say the least. Solas looked away with furrowed eyebrows and his fingers were yet again dancing over her hairbrush.  
Another deep breath.  
You can do this, you are on the right track.  
“I became a weapon and I was proud of it.” She wasn’t proud of her actions anymore though, hadn’t been for many years, and she had seen the consequences from first row. “The people I invaded in their sleep knew unconsciously that they shouldn’t trust me when they woke up, but they loved Keeper Deshanna and listened to her.”   
“You influenced them.” Solas dropped the brush in his lap, and his shoulders were lifted. He didn’t like this, but he listened. Good.  
No it wasn’t, this was really difficult. He would never trust her again.  
“Yes.” Dirthara’s heart was beating hard in her chest, a big lump of tar was slowly growing in her belly. It was hard to breathe. Pain, all for the greater good. “And at some point I wasn’t curious anymore, didn’t think there was more to learn.”  
“Power of any kind feeds pride.” Solas cleared his throat again. This conversation wasn’t just causing him discomfort - there was something more to it. Regret? Of course. He knew this, because he had lived it too. Maybe that was part of growing up, maybe...  
“With all this power though, I believed my position as second was below my abilities”, Dirthara continued. “I only had Farras left, but I couldn’t talk to him in person, so…”  
Solas’ voice was not much more than a growl and he spoke between tightly shut jaws. “You had him assassinate the First.”  
Dirthara only nodded. “He was a very clever man though, not easily persuaded. You know from firsthand experience what he turned into. This is why I still mourn him, and this is why his spirit avoids me.”  
“Enough.” Solas stood up, bent under the low ceiling. “I’ve heard enough. You wanted this off your chest, and now we’re done. You will however not have my understanding.”   
He didn’t even look at her, just left their tent in composed rage. He stopped just outside the entrance, and the door flaps hadn’t even stopped moving when he turned around and poked his head in again. This time, he looked her straight in the eyes. This was anger. What she had seen before was nothing compared to this. His anger was not something she wanted pointed straight at her.   
“You twisted your brother, your closest friend, out of his purpose. The consequence is your burden to carry for the rest of your life.”  
“I know.” Dirthara sighed and nodded, but she wasn’t sure if he noticed her response. He was already gone. And through her intoxicated mind a brief thought found a way into her consciousness. So, it was true? A spirit in the material world changed just as a spirit did in the Fade? Did it mean that such an action was possible to undo? Could one turn a demon back to its purpose?   
Reality returned as a hard punch in the stomach. She couldn’t breathe.  
Farras was gone.  
Solas was gone.  
She thought she would have felt relief, thought that this would make her focus, but it didn’t. If Farras had taken a big piece of her with him, Solas left a huge empty space in her heart, a hole that just kept growing with every step he took further away from her. This would be good bye.   
The pain grew too heavy to carry, and all her feelings poured out in a forceful eruption. Tears, cries muffled by her pillow, but the pain wouldn’t leave.


	10. Fear and Deceit

Solas

His algorithms. A feeling of panic causing him to breathe faster. Calculations! They were all wrong, the variables wrong, the vector subspaces in completely different angles. He would have to scratch all of it, start from the top, rethink his plans - all this extra work because of her.  
Inhale. Begin with what’s true. Exhale.  
Inhale. The water on Lake Calenhad was still, despite the circles forming around his pebbles, the waves reflecting the color of the sky, a reminder of Ghilan'nain’s cries at Andruil’s defeat. This was the place, the lake even had the shape of a hare, as if that was a coincident. One could still hear the screams of the south winds, even though it wasn’t more than whispers. Red, pink orange; the fleeing clouds in purple and grey, burning in yellow, the red hues of the mountains. Exhale.   
Inhale. The smooth pebbles in his hands, the sun was about to rise, the calm waters only disturbed by the pebbles as he threw them, one by one. Just to erupt the surface, to force his mind back into the right motion. Emotions, he didn’t function under that kind of pressure, too easily overwhelmed. To many impressions, needed focus to stay calm. Exhale.  
If it only was that simple, to just stir up some waves and cause a flutter - growing circles forcing them to roll further away. He had been standing there throwing pebbles for so long, his arm had begun to hurt, but that hurt was easier to handle. This - the petty deeds of one single person - it shattered his entire belief in life as he had come to know it. Gave him no reason to wait. As soon as he could retrieve the orb…  
He had thought she would be different, truly believed he recognized something familiar for the first time since before his long and lonely uthenera, back when...  
Hm. Betrayal seemed to follow those traits. Purpose turned into determination and desire; no hesitation, no regrets. She was just as simple-minded and shortsighted as everybody else - with fickle goals and simple thoughts.   
Wait, that wasn’t right, it was his anger speaking. She showed remorse, and even though she was headstrong, he knew that she evaluated her every step before moving forward. That was the main problem though. How could someone with such a bright intellect make such idiotic decisions? She was not human, her ways lead not along a shorter track. What would such a small step up really mean in such a forgotten part of the world? It wouldn’t make any difference. Only thinking of it made his head spin. Losing all for that, was it worth it?   
Inhale. New algorithms taking form, numbers, variables changing places. Seeing things as they were made it easier. Exhale. Small parts in a bigger picture.  
Dirthara had gone from prisoner to the undubbed leader of the Inquisition in a remarkably short time. He should have seen it sooner. The new algorithm was more stable, more reliable, but it made him scared. Not for his own sake, but for what would become of…  
He had seen others follow this path before and didn’t want to know what a person that ruthless would do with something as big as the Inquisition. Not her end goal, that he was sure of. This organization was just her tool. With her finger in every game throughout both Orlais and Ferelden, she knew what buttons to press. That thing she did - she called it her work face - he hated it, but it worked in Orlais.  
Why hadn’t he been more watchful before? It was a bit too late to wonder about her methods now. Cullen with his growing army backing her up, Josephine finding resources and contacts, Leliana with her network of spies. Dirthara gathered a lot of power fast, but it wasn’t until now when the dice was rolling that he realized that with normal means this was impossible.  
Solas threw another pebble, listened to the sound of it breaking the surface and looked at the rings. Something small to set everything in motion. A catalyst. Everything around it fluttering according to exact calculations, always the same pattern over and over again. Not like sound at all. No song that filled the world with magic. Songs, only for the sake of it.  
She sang with a web spinner's words, made accurate estimations and acted upon them. She was the catalyst that put all of this in motion. If she hadn’t been...  
Of course he knew he shouldn’t have trusted her. He had kept his distance from the very beginning, and still he had fallen into her web. Her innocent thirst for understanding, as if the world had passed by without tainting her soul; how she didn’t believe in anything she couldn’t prove first.  
Was that who she really was, or was it just an act? Difficult to say, he couldn’t use such an unstable variable.  
And her beautiful eyes. Oceans of blue. Piercing, as if everything she looked at was worth studying in detail.   
With her, he felt alive, valuable, recognized. That was why. He had been flattered by her interest.  
And why the lies? Why would her virtue have been of importance, if she never planned to return to her tribe?   
A part of the illusion she was serving, no doubt. A chaste young woman, someone who chose to put natural drive aside to follow a purpose. Did it really matter? It was just another cultural boundary, something to force someone into submission.   
Ah. Of course.   
She was the Herald of Andraste. As long as she kept this facade up, the Chantry would follow her. It was true. Well, half of the Chantry, but she was slowly winning them over, one by one.  
He threw a whole hand of pebbles in the water before he bent down to grab another handful from the shore.   
Don’t be silly, Solas, she’s a Dalish mage. The result of generations of careful breeding. Just like Dorian, meant to marry someone of similar traits. A perfectly reasonable explanation. Solas grunted. Some traditions still remained the same.  
He was just about to throw another pebble, when he came to think of something.  
Solas would have noticed if she had influenced him in any way, wouldn’t he?   
Wouldn’t he? She walked into his dream, filled it with color...  
She had found his weakness and played all his strings. Her curiosity, that quick intellect, the focus with which she approached the world. How she chose to see things from more perspectives than one. She knew he would be puzzled, let his guard down. And he’d been so easily duped, just because of his fear of standing alone.   
She must have found out…  
Of course she knew, why would she otherwise have teased him with those specific Dalish references yesterday?  
Her reasons. Well, she had given him her motives now. Without thinking about consequences, she wanted power. It had always been the same, through the generations of men, qunari, elves and dwarves alike. It was always power in the end that made societies fall. Corruption of the mind corrupted organizations. It made him lose faith in this world, more than ever. She had been a glimpse of hope, something to hang on to when everything else around him fell apart.  
Don’t be such a weak sap. You’ve met her kind before. Stay close, and maybe you’ll reach your goal faster. She was after the orb. Of course she was. How would she in any other way have gotten that mark on her hand if she hadn’t tried to steal it already? She would find it again, and he would stay by her side when she...  
...But if she knew, she wouldn’t have told him this.   
Solas halted for a moment, his hand stopped mid motion in the air, just realizing something. When a person decides to get something off their chest, they have a tendency to tell it from their perspective - ease the blow, so to speak. Dirthara had been blunt, not even trying to make him understand her reasons.  
She wanted him to know. For what reason?  
Solas threw the rest of the pebbles and sighed, looked over his shoulder towards the camp. More variables. He would get a headache. He needed time to figure this out. She knew more than she wanted him to believe, and she wasn’t as innocent as she had seemed.   
No. He was just being paranoid. Fear and Deceit.  
He had his reasons though - especially since she wore the Keeper of Secrets on her face. She had chosen him. So long ago, and still Solas wondered if Dirthamen’s legacy was fair. If that was why Fear and Deceit always followed in his footsteps. So long ago, and still he wouldn’t give away his secrets.  
It didn’t matter. Calculations gave him enough to see some future. When it came to Dirthara, he would have to keep her close just to make sure.

Solas returned to the camp, tended the fire as he brewed a kettle of tea. Not his usual herbal brew; he needed something stronger to quicken his head. His tastebuds were protesting even before the tea was done.  
The morning sun climbed over the treetops, gave the stillness in their camp an almost eerie ambiance. The fog; like dancing smoke disappearing into the woods, the birds singing louder as if they had to greet this lovely day a little bit more energetic. Why not, the latest week had been horrible. To think such a beautiful day could bring so much...   
Muffled grunts from one of the tents. Solas looked up. The dwarf poked his head out and scratched his chin. A loud raspy sound as the nails ran over the stubble.  
“Did someone die?” Varric wondered hoarsely and squinted at him as he crawled out of his tent.  
Well, maybe something had died. His illusion of their sweet Herald. Not the right thing to say, since his doubt hardly would make it easier on group morale.  
If there was any, that is.  
Solas shook his head. “No, I’m about to drink tea, and I detest the stuff.”  
“Then why drink it?” Varric stood up, grunted and closed his eyes with the palms of his hands pressed against his temples as if his head was about to explode. “Why drink anything at all?” he muttered and sat down beside Solas.  
He deserved it. Varric had put himself in this position. He was after all a grown man and knew this would come.   
There was though a huge ‘but’ lingering in Solas’ mind. Varric was an archer with a rather powerful crossbow in his hands. From the prospects of things, the dwarf would need to use it and Solas didn’t want those stray bolts in his own back by mistake.  
“You know, every time you do this, your brain gets severely damaged”, Solas chided as he waved Varric to lean closer. “You are a smart man, Varric. Don’t destroy that.”  
“Well, if I’m so smart, then a little brain damage now and then won’t do too much harm”, Varric muttered in return.  
Solas placed one thumb on Varric’s forehead and closed his eyes.  
“Hey, what are you doing?” Varric flinched under his touch, but didn’t move. “Don’t take this wrong, Chuckles, you’re a nice guy and all that, but…”  
“Damage control. Just hold still.” Yes, there were several injured connections there, especially in the motoric and cognitive sections. Varric’s reflexes would be slowed down. It would take time for the body to heal this on its own.   
“This is not the day for you to try your theories”, Solas murmured and opened his eyes. “We do not know what to expect today.”  
The mana tingled in his fingertips as a small healing spell combined with soothing ice took form. The cool swirls disappeared into the dwarf’s skull in a light blue mist. When he removed his thumb, a blue fingerprint stayed on Varric’s skin, but it faded away only moments later. “Drink some water for once.”  
“Right.” Varric snorted, reached for the tea kettle and poured some of the brew into two cups. “Thanks. I guess you should do your magic on the rest of our party too.” Varric offered him one of the mugs. “Here.”  
Solas shuddered. Varric was right of course, but only the thought of touching either Dorian or Dirthara made him feel greasy. “Most certainly.” He grabbed the teacup Varric had poured him and sipped from it. The bitter taste made him hiss.

Dirthara

Surprisingly calm outside Redcliffe Castle, the long bridge empty and the clear sky promising continuity. It was almost unreal. How could this be such a beautiful day, when she was approaching her end? She hoped her fear wasn’t showing. Up until now she had been able to figure out what was coming, but this? Alexius was to unpredictable. All she knew about him she had learnt from Dorian, and to be frank she wasn’t quite sure yet if she could trust him or not. A pleasant character, sure, but he was a ‘Vint’ as Bull would express it.   
And Solas? He wa in such a bad mood, she was surprised that he hadn’t shot her in the back with an ice pike on the way over here.  
Well, one distraction out of the way. If this were her last few breaths, she wouldn’t hesitate because of one man.  
Almost too calm. This day was too calm, as if time had stopped to let every living creature watch this very moment. The wings of time were fickle things, especially here.  
Focus. She needed to focus. There were too many things that could go wrong.   
Of course Alexius was unpredictable; he was after all trying to save his son. Dirthara could relate to that powerless desperation, but it also made her fear him. He had gone far and wouldn’t stop until he reached his goal.   
But his weakness could hopefully be used against him.  
And the air wasn’t standing still just to await her fall. This stillness had a natural explanation. Well not really, but…  
That strange tingle had faded off slightly, but there was still something indescribable remaining. Magister Alexius must have changed the continuum permanently, it would take time for Redcliffe to be back in sync with the rest of Thedas.   
“This will spread”, Dorian murmured, as if he’d read her mind. He seemed to feel the same inevitability as her when they took their first steps out onto the bridge that led them straight to the castle gates. Dirthara glanced at him, noticed his furrowed eyebrows. If he was being this serious, she should most certainly trust his feelings. Solas had been very reticent all morning, more so than usual, which made her slightly nervous. His estimations were always close enough to the truth for her to figure out a plan, but this… She only had herself this time, and based on how little she really knew she hoped that her own calculations of the situation would do enough.  
Dirthara swallowed. It had been the right thing to do, it was just the timing.   
Further ahead, Castle Redcliffe stretched towards the skies; imposing, a mark of power. Today was the day, and she wasn’t sure of what she would find. With every step, they came closer and with every step she felt smaller. A proud posture would hardly help, more than for the purpose of giving her party some confidence. As long as she looked like she knew what she was doing, they would...  
The gates opened. Dirthara swallowed.  
Her heart was pounding hard in her chest, her lips dry, her legs shaking. A deep breath, a hardly noticeable pause before she entered the castle.  
“So, you are seriously intending to give these southern mages license to… well, be like mages back home in Tevinter?” Dorian whispered as the gates closed behind their backs.  
“So long as they’re like you”, Dirthara replied with a smile. She almost purred like a cat, just to seem calm. “Now, run along. Find Felix. We don’t want to spoil our little surprise, do we?”  
Dorian smiled, albeit a rather cramped expression that made her think of constipation. He put one hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eyes.  
“Remember what I said. Expecting the trap is the first step to turning it into your advantage.” He blew her a kiss as he sneaked away.  
Solas grunted behind her back.  
“I knew it!” Varric chuckled and Dirthara turned around just to see him punch Solas lightly in the side.  
Solas glared at Varric. “What is it this time?”  
“And to think Sparkles had to come along for you to see it”, Varric continued with a wolfish grin.  
“Shut up!” Solas sputtered in response.  
“Not now, Varric”, Dirthara agreed with a sting of pain. “We need to focus. We’re outnumbered and…”  
“Yeah, yeah. I know”, Varric grunted and scratched his neck, “I might not come out alive from this, you know.”  
Ah. His way of handling fear. She might have known. The guilt struck her hard. A greater good, she really hoped this would serve a purpose.   
“I should have gone alone.” Dirthara shook her head and looked away. “You’re right.”  
“That’s not what I…” Varric sighed.  
“Both of you, quiet.” Solas pointed towards the stairs ahead. A young man descended in front of them. “We have a plan. Stick to it.”  
Dirthara took another deep breath, but her fluttering heart wouldn’t find peace. Yeah, stick to the plan. Dorian being the important part of it - felt great to put that much trust into someone she didn’t fully trust. Bull had pointed it out more than once that she would have to be careful with ‘that Vint, he’s too darn good looking’, which was difficult when he was so likeable. The perfect infiltrator. A bit too fond of his own reflection at points, but they all had their faults. She herself bore more flaws than others.  
Concentrate. On one thing at the time, if that will make it easier. The young man, start with him. Blond, short hair, the posture of a mage. Of course he was a mage, what else? He wasn’t Imperial though.   
Maybe, with a little luck she could win him over…?   
No, he liked this. She could read that from his posture alone. He would gladly follow the Magister. For once, he was in power, and he liked that feeling. Young, by the way, he was probably older than herself.  
Dirthara took a step forward, lifted her chin and straightened her posture. “Announce us.” Proud, strong and confident. Hopefully that was her message. Her voice was distorted in the great entrance hall, a harsh order echoing between the stone walls.   
The man stopped, three steps above them, paused as his eyes flew over all their faces, then recaptured his determined stance. “The invitation only included the Herald. Your entourage will have to remain here.”  
“Entourage?” Dirthara snorted and crossed her arms. “These are my advisors and negotiators. They go where I go.”  
This was the part of their plan that she found most difficult to believe in. Really convincing titles; a sleazy dwarf and a scruffy elf, both of them looking like she had found them in the gutter just outside the castle walls. She could have come up with something more befitting, couldn’t she?  
Nah, this would work. She would appear to be somewhat eccentric. Good enough. Her dwarven negotiator was probably a part time prostitute and her elven advisor a beggar. The illusion of an Inquisition barely scraping by. Hopefully enough for Magister Alexius to underestimate them.  
The young mage paused again, and the air tingled with nerves and expectations before he nodded and turned around. “Follow me.”  
Dirthara sighed, felt how her tense muscles relaxed. This first step was easier than expected. Which made her wonder if they were walking blindly into the wolf’s lair. Had the Magister and his men found Leliana and her agents, or was she in this very moment talking to Dorian and Felix?

They entered the throne room under silence. The throne room. Dirthara had expected that, but for some reason she had hoped that Magister Alexius wouldn’t address them there. Maybe for the respect of the Arl himself, or because she wanted Alexius to be beyond rational in his behaviour since… well, with such unstable magic, one had to be desperate. It was all pretend, she knew this and she suspected that he understood that she knew this, all for the sake of a feeling of power. To be honest, she was a little disappointed that she had been right, even though that was enough proof of her correct calculations. It made her slightly less nervous.  
“I bet five gold he sits in the throne”, Dirthara muttered over her shoulder to Varric, hoping a game would ease his nerves too.  
“Hah. I bet ten that he has his legs over the armrest”, Varric filled in, and Dirthara could feel how the air changed around them.  
Solas snickered, the first time all day he had been in a remotely good mood. “If this is true, he is clearly overcompensating for something.”   
Ah. Solas had come to the same conclusion as herself. That felt reassuring. Maybe the same reason he was slightly less gloomy all of the sudden.  
Dirthara grinned. “A short staff?”  
“Mind you, it’s not the size of the boat that matters…” Varric started, which was followed by one of Solas’ reserved laughs. She could have kissed that dwarf on the forehead for that feat; a grumpy Solas made a nervous party.  
“So, he’s clearly overcompensating for some unsatisfactory motion in the ocean”, Dirthara said and winked over her shoulder. The flutter in her stomach had subdued, and she almost felt invincible. Adrenaline. Her knees weren’t shaking anymore.   
“Felix is an only child, right?” she added slyly, “Alexius’ wife must be devastated.”  
“You two have been spending too much time with Sera and Blackwall”, Solas pointed out with an amused tone in his voice.

And lo and behold. There he was, Magister Alexius sitting in the arl’s throne as if this was his birthright. Not with his legs over the armrest, however, but both Varric and Dirthara found it difficult to not start laughing.  
“You owe me five gold, Varric.”   
Dirthara one, Alexius zero. Ah, this felt good. She had been right about him.This would turn out… interesting, to put it mildly.  
“I’m proud of you, kid”, Varric muttered while doing what he could to hold back his laughter. “You turned out alright. I mean, you still suck at Wicked Grace, but...”  
“Come on, you two”, Solas whispered and shook his head. “Keep it together.”


	11. Machinations of Mages

Solas

A loud blast, then green light. That tingle in the air that made everything halt, if just for a moment, and the world opening into something else - a strange pull that made the whole room flutter. Just for a moment, or was it longer? Solas wasn’t sure. Time was irrelevant, tangible, and it warped around the green light as if…  
Wait.  
Dirthara!  
She was floating mid air, her coat moving slowly as if on its own will. Dorian was caught in the same warp.  
It wasn’t until that stillness of time that Solas realized what Varric had been talking about earlier, that very same morning.

“I see what you’re thinking there, Chuckles. That we brought this headache onto ourselves, that we are grown up and have to handle our consequences accordingly.”  
Varric’s exact words as they had their tea by the fire, which corresponded well with Solas’ thoughts. Among other things.  
“Staying up all night drinking is hardly a good way to prepare for a fight”, Solas had muttered before he emptied his cup of tea.   
“Yes it is, if you believe it might be your last.”

Just for a moment, everything stood still, just that blast. And then she was gone. Dorian too, but he… well. For now, not Solas’ concern.  
If you believe it might be your last. The words didn’t seem important when Varric threw them out there like a reason for an unhinged behaviour, but now...  
Dirthara never thought she would leave Redcliffe Castle alive. She even had prepared for that eventuality. That thought hit him like lightning, and the entire day rushed through his head in short fragments of images.

Dirthara wasn’t hungover when she woke up.   
No, she was still drunk. He had been frustrated with her for acting irresponsibly.  
Not that it seemed to matter much; sluggish and with an obvious speech impairment, she came out of their tent with an idea and put that idea into motion before Solas had a chance to heal her.   
Stubborn, as always. Fought herself just as much as she fought their enemies.  
A letter was dictated and Varric wrote it down, then hastily sent it to former Grand Enchantress Fiona. An invitation to the meeting with Magister Alexius.

Of course.   
If Dirthara didn’t expect to finish the job, she needed as many mages as possible on their side. 

“Magister Alexius will most certainly meet us in the throne room.” Dirthara slurred out to the group as they sat down to eat breakfast. “For him, it is of utmost importance that the mages believe him to be powerful. If not, their belief in their salvation might falter and by that their reason to fight on his side. Believe it or not, but he fears the Inquisition.”  
A rather impressive observation and a really clever move. Even though he had been frustrated with her, he had to admit that. She didn’t just prepare their party, she empowered them by pointing out that it was the Inquisition Alexius feared, not her - offered them the same feeling of being empowered. The difference was that she removed herself from the center of attention. She was not the reason for their victories, it was all because of what they had accomplished as a group.  
Solas knew better, of course.

And now he understood her reason.

Dorian was ordered to ‘disappear’ the moment they had gotten inside.  
“He knows his way around the castle”, she had said. Dorian had looked disappointed at first, but when she told him that he and Felix was needed to lead Leliana back to the throne room as fast as possible, he was eager to help. At first Solas had thought this to be a questionable solution, but he realized now that it had been about keeping Dorian out until the last moment. They needed to have the upper hand before Alexius did something desperate.

And this spell was something desperate.

They were all nervous. Of course they were. But to be honest, no one really thought they would lose this battle.   
Well, Dirthara must have been of a different opinion. If he only hadn’t been in such a bad mood, he would have seen it. In retrospect, it was rather obvious.

All the way from their camp to the castle she had been quiet, but as soon as they entered, something happened. Her focus was a stable tingle as always, her posture proud, but there was a new glow. She made jokes, had him and Varric laughing all the way to the throne room. She even looked like she enjoyed this - walking straight into the belly of the beast, surrounded by hostiles, to hold a friendly conversation with the enemy.

Her confidence. It made them all feel calm. Himself included.

After that the whole plan rolled into action. Fiona entered the room, caused enough insecurity among the mages that Alexius was forced to react. His first pawn was set into action - the guards in the room - but they were hastily taken out by Leliana and her spies.  
And that’s when Dorian and Felix made their dramatic entry. Overly dramatic, one might add, but it hardly mattered now.  
What happened next was not what Solas had expected. 

The blast.  
If you believe it might be your last...  
Checkmate.  
Dorian and Dirthara disappeared into thin air.  
Dead, gone.  
Silent fragments of seconds passing by through the emptiness of time itself, as if everything in the room slowed down. Another dreamer, lost to the ages. They still needed her, he still needed her to...  
Was there any hope?  
The spell… it was… Solas recognized the basis of it from a time long forgotten. Crudely performed, but the foundation was there. Incredible that one man had come so far during his lifetime...  
Time magic. The same unstable spell as the one Alexius had used before. Space warping as it was trying to heal itself around the hole that was left where Dirthara and Dorian had been standing just moments earlier.  
Yes, there was still a chance, but it was not in Solas’ hands. A frustrating comprehension; he wasn’t someone who stood idle when things needed to be done.  
A moment too short for anyone to react, the shock was too great, but long enough for thoughts to fly through their heads.  
“Well, shit.”   
Varric’s reaction as predictable as always.  
The only thing Solas could do was to hope. There were too many realities, too many possibilities - hopefully the right one would materialize and not just become a lost memory in the fade. He felt so powerless.  
And then, another blast. The rift through time and space began to grow again.  
Through the light two shadows that slowly took shape. He knew who they were before he could see their faces, and the relief he felt was almost too much to handle. Dirthara, pale with blood splattered over her face, but determined and calm with her staff lifted. Dorian with a stern expression and an amulet in his hand. They had found their way back, and all wasn’t lost.  
Solas sighed, Varric cursed again and behind them someone gasped as if the reality of this passing moment just now had reached their awareness.  
Magister Alexius fell down to his knees and stared at the two mages coming out of the rift.  
Dorian grinned. “You’ll have to do better than that, Alexius.”  
These words and the following conversation disappeared like white noise when Solas met Dirthara’s glance. She was calm now, but something had happened, something… unnerving. For a moment he forgot all about his disappointment and frustration, all he wanted was to run up to her and hold her close, tell her that everything would be alright.  
He didn’t.  
Not because those words were nothing but a soothing lie, but because he knew she needed to appear invincible for another couple of minutes. A divine being, not of this world, hardly needed to be comforted by an elf in rags.  
And then she broke eye contact and focused on Magister Alexius. “Is that all you’ve got?” her voice vibrated from emotion, but she stayed calm.  
Yes, something had happened. Something that Alexius knew he couldn’t change. Not anymore.  
“You’ve won. There is no reason to continue this charade”, he said. He had given up.

It all happened so fast. In the midst of it all, King Alistair of Ferelden arrived, and for a moment it seemed like all apostates were to be exiled. It was like being lowered down to the bottom of the ocean - whatever happened to the mages included Solas too. They were all apostates now. He remember pointing out his view on the matter, but couldn’t recall what he had said. If it was his words or Dirthara’s plan all along, he didn’t know.  
“We would be honored to have you fight as allies on the Inquisition’s side.” That had been her words. It wasn’t until they left Redcliffe that he realized what that really meant.   
He himself, as an apostate, was safe too. Dirthara had gained him his freedom, and he would always be under her protection.

Dirthara

Back in Haven again, preparing. According to Dirthara’s estimations, they would be able to fully close the breach this time, and an excursion to the ruins of The Temple of Sacred Ashes was planned the following day. She was certain they would manage; she had managed to stop it from opening on her own.   
It would finally be over, and she could return to her clan. Leave this all behind and return to her purpose. Unless...  
Maybe that was why she couldn’t find rest. Twisted and turned under the sheets in her bed - well, Solas’ bed - either too cold or too hot or… just couldn’t fall asleep. Nerves in a knot, thoughts spinning in her head, and then there was Solas.  
Solas sat on the floor by the fire, reading a book. A tea cup rested in his left hand, but he hadn’t touched its content for at least an hour. She hadn’t heard the soft sound of paper crinkling between his fingers either in a while - he wasn’t really reading anymore.  
“Dirthara…” He spoke softly, but didn’t look up from the open book in his lap. “You do not need to worry. At least not…” he sighed, placed the teacup on the floor and closed the book.  
“I’m not…” Dirthara grunted and sat up. “I’m not thinking about tomorrow.”  
Solas turned his face and looked at her. He’d been very quiet for the last couple of days, evasive even, but not angry as she had expected. Sure, there was a strain on their complicated relationship, more obvious than ever when both of them tried to avoid the elephant in the room while living under the same roof, but there wasn’t another place for her to stay. Every house in Haven was full.  
“You’re muttering, moving around as if your body is too small to contain all your thoughts.” Solas grabbed the teacup again and stood up from the floor. “Your spirit is everywhere at the same time, I can’t concentrate. Talk. Get it out of your system.”  
Dirthara pulled the sheets around her and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I just realized… I will not be able to begin my travels back to the Free Marches tomorrow, will I?”  
Solas flinched, furrowed his eyebrows and studied her face. “You were planning to leave?”  
“Well, I thought…” Dirthara met his glance and was surprised to see confusion rather than disappointment. “I thought we would be done as soon as the Breach was closed, but in Castle Redcliffe I realized something.”  
Solas broke their eye contact and looked down on the closed book in his hand before he turned his back against her and moved across the room to the bookshelf. “You told us about The Elder One, a grim future with the assassination of Empress Celene as a catalyst. Is there more?”  
Dirthara got the feeling he tried to occupy himself with pointless tasks just to keep busy, the same way she herself did when the nerves were taking hold of her.  
“The Breach is neither the beginning nor the end”, Dirthara murmured and rested her chin on her knees. “Time is just how we perceive every moment of our petty lives, and every moment is a new dimension with millions of possibilities. I can only see a small part of that in this life, and it makes me afraid.”  
Solas stood still for a moment before he put the book on the shelf and turned around to look at her. “Afraid for not knowing what to expect?”  
Dirthara shook her head. “No, for not being able to do anything about it. If a man like Alexius can open portals between the dimensions of time, then what could the Elder One do? If he went back in time, I couldn’t follow - I wouldn’t know how.”  
“You would be in different realities”, Solas murmured and a faint smile spread over his lips. “Do you understand now why I wondered if it was the Fade you had been traveling through?”  
Dirthara nodded and sighed. “And somehow Alexius managed to cut little pieces from different realities and put them all together again in a different form. Take that piece of time where I spoke to Fiona in Val Royeaux, for example. That piece was masterfully pasted into this reality, and nobody would have noticed, had it not been for Fiona. She never met us in Val Royeaux, but in some strange way she knew anyway. The Fade offers something similar to a four dimensional perspective, but I didn’t know one could choose one reality and force it to materialize.”  
Solas shook his head and moved towards the kitchen area. “Only when you already know the future can you choose the right actions. The problem with the future is that every little dimension of time offers so many possibilities and the futures multiply by every choice one make. Every prospect is highly hypothetical without the correct calculations.”  
“And how do one know that the calculations one have are the right ones?” Dirthara snickered; a rather dry expression, reflecting her powerless situation in this stalemate more than finding something amusing about it. “If I chose to return home, it could be the end of my clan. If I chose to stay...”  
“The outcome could be the same.” Solas nodded with his back turned against her as he cleaned his teacup. “Do you mean there’s a fifty percent chance that you leave the Inquisition tomorrow?”  
Dirthara avoided the straight answer, didn’t want to make any statements prematurely. Mainly because of what she had seen in the Fade. Whatever she chose to do, the chaos would follow in her footsteps. Against her will, she had become a bait. She couldn’t change her history - the Lavellan clan was already in danger because of her actions thus far - and if she stayed in the Inquisition, she couldn’t be there to protect them. Chaos would find her, whatever path she took. “According to my calculations, I won’t be needed here when the Breach is closed”, she murmured.  
Solas dropped the teacup into the water basin on the bench with a loud clank. “I still…” He sighed and turned around, their eyes met. “I am not going to convince you to do something you do not want to do, lethallan, but you and I see things differently.”  
“Whatever happens next, it happens where I am”, Dirthara pointed out.  
“And by leaving you will not give your clan a fighting chance.” Solas dried his hands on his pants.  
“They don’t have a fighting chance anyway. I would however give the Inquisition a chance to grow.”  
Solas crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t know that yet.”  
“We’ll see tomorrow then.” Dirthara scooched down in the bed again and closed her eyes. She fell asleep, listening to Solas’ soft steps over the wooden floor.

*

The snow on the rooftops glistening in the moonlight, shades of blue and white over the trees and fields outside the barricades. The veil was thin here, it made it easier to find peace. She sat on the chantry’s roof, the highest point she could find, her legs dangling over the edge. Farras not a vengeful ghost anymore, but a memory by her side. He finally came back. Just as Solas had said. How long had it been? Two months? She had lost him long ago, and the pain subdued faster than expected. The guilt would always stay with her, but it was easier to handle now. She should have spoken about it earlier, shared the burden.  
The cadence changed, blended with her own beat. She knew Solas was there before he spoke.  
“You linger, but the stars are pale, the dawn is near and we should leave…” He sat down beside her, offered Farras a slight nod. Farras nodded back, rose from his spot on the edge of the roof and left.  
Dirthara sighed. ”The stars are shining brightly and the night is young, just dream about the moonlight.” Too much rested on her shoulders after this day, and if she dreamed hard enough, maybe some things would change… No. She had seen the consequences of her actions before.   
If the night could just be a little bit longer… Some color, the night needed more color.  
Solas snickered, sounded genuinely amused. “The moon is blue, you’re not really convincing.”  
Dirthara smiled and turned her head to look at him. “We could stay here forever. Let’s not leave before the night is fully over.” And around her the rising sun turned a paler shade of red against the background of dark blue, the moon and stars the brighter lights.  
Solas paused, studied her face before he shook his head. “Your words will melt my foolish heart, so please, don’t speak. We need to leave. There is a day awaiting us tomorrow.”  
“My words will melt your foolish heart?” Dirthara recited and met his glance with a sly grin. “You’re not a fool, so what are you implying?” Everything was so uncomplicated, it was just them and nothing more. One of many realities, and this one by far the least difficult. Somewhere in the back of her head a small voice shouted that she shouldn’t follow this track, that this was a choice she would regret, but she didn’t listen. Didn’t want to.  
Solas was still smiling, but he looked down at his hands that rested in his lap. “I hear your words and see your soul, and yet your mind’s a labyrinth, reflecting through your beauty in the moonlight. I’d love to stay, right here, right now, but is it wise? You’re tempting me. We have a cause, a broken path to handle.”  
Dirthara gasped, looked away and felt how her cheeks turned red. “You think I’m beautiful, Solas?”  
He paused and grunted. “You know you are; why act surprised?” His reply a frustrated response to his earlier words. He never meant to say that.   
“But I have shown you the ugly side of me…” She sputtered, before she managed to hinder her words. He was not supposed to know that she had done that on purpose.  
Solas flinched and looked up. Their eyes met. “You wanted me to push away. Ah. Subtle and remarkably effective.”  
Dirthara sighed. “The sun is shining brightly and the dawn is here, forget about the moonlight.”  
Solas rose from his spot on the roof and offered her a hand. “We need to wake up”, he agreed.


	12. Wolves in the Snow

Solas

There wasn’t much time to think about their conversation in the Fade that morning. Still preparations to be made, just small details, but enough to keep Solas occupied. It wasn’t until later he gave it time; much later, when the world seemed to crumble around him.

It had been remarkably easy to close the breach. A little bit too easy, even though Dirthara was weary afterwards. They left the Temple of Sacred Ashes with their hearts swelling with victory. Nothing but a scar left in the sky, everybody unharmed - of course it called for some celebrations. Music and dancing in the streets of Haven, meat roasting over open fires, wine bottles opened; your background didn’t matter anymore, you were one with the Inquisition. The festive atmosphere was inciting to laughter and games, but something held Solas away from it all. Dirthara’s mood. A courteous facade, the occasional friendly conversation with the people of Haven who all treated her as if she was something more than a mortal, but it was just that. A facade.  
They joined their party around the fire outside Varric’s tent, sat there until the evening lowered its wings over their heads and the setting sun coloured the skies above. Tales wandered around, just as the wine bottle, but Dirthara stayed focused and so did Solas. She had something cooked up, and he was more than certain of it when she rose from her seat by the fire, excused herself and left. He hurried after her, suspecting that their conversation from the night before was her reason.  
“So, how do you like your godhood?” Solas asked as he followed by her side up the stairs towards the chantry. A somewhat feeble attempt to lighten the mood.  
“Not at all.” Dirthara snickered and gave Solas an amused look. “I’m still just a Dalish girl who’s playing with fire.”  
Solas smiled back, but still he was certain that something was about to happen. “You keep saying that, and yet you prove the opposite over and over again.”  
Dirthara frowned and looked down at her feet. “The only thing I have proven is that anyone, even a Dalish girl, can make a difference.”  
Solas didn’t answer. He still wasn’t completely convinced about her motif, couldn’t shake the feeling off that she knew more than she pretended to do. “You have humiliated him twice, you know”, he murmured. “Eventually he will come for you.”  
“Yes. I know.” Dirthara paused in her steps up the stairs, just for a moment. “I’m leaving, first thing in the morning.”  
Ah. So that was why.  
Solas was of course disappointed with her decision, but more than anything he was frustrated with himself for the feelings he couldn't control. Anger, because without her he would not have the same chances to find what was rightfully his. Sadness, because he would miss her company.   
Solas sighed. “So, it’s decided then. I could come with you, if...”  
Dirthara stopped and turned around to look him in the eyes. “That would be very unwise, Solas. I need you right here.”  
“Here?” As a dreamer, doing service as a messenger boy? For what other reason would she need him here? Solas chuckled. “You can’t be serious.”  
Dirthara looked away and began to move again. She didn’t answer until they stood outside the gates to the chantry. “You are better suited for leading a rebellion than I am, Solas.”  
“Rebellion? What are you talking about?” His frustration ran through like paint, coloured his mind in red and black, and he could hear it in his voice but couldn’t stop it from choosing his words. “Since we met I have never left your side, why would you expect…” He paused when he realized what she had said.  
Rebellion.  
That he was better suited for leading one.   
Ah. She knew.   
But…  
“The Inquisition was formed out of rebellion; we are rebels. Apostates given freedom under our own rule, divided Templars and priests who have left the chantry, the Seekers, the Wardens… Sera and her Friends of Red Jenny, for gods’ sake. We all come from different paths, and what we have in common is that we decided t shout to the moon who we were because we became tired of not being heard.” Dirthara’s hand rested on the door handle when she turned to look at him again. “You’re the only one I would trust with that kind of responsibility.”  
She was giving it all away to go hunt the Elder One down herself.  
“You can’t do this”, Solas protested, “we have all earned the right to…”  
“Can’t do this?” Dirthara snorted and walked through the gates into the chantry. “Watch me.”

The commotion indoors startled them both. Scouts rushing back and forth, two wounded templars in an aggressive conversation with Cullen, and on the floor, Chancellor Roderick with a pale boy by his side. The scene spoke loudly enough itself, but the words echoed through the hall and offered a very clear picture.  
A siege.  
The elder One was here.  
So soon?  
“What’s happened?” Dirthara’s deep voice echoed through the room, and everything else became silent. Solas had gotten used to Dirthara’s frank way of asking questions and her very pragmatic solutions, but Chancellor Roderick never liked it. Even now, when he was lying on the floor mortally wounded, he scoffed. “And so the Herald of Andraste approaches.”  
“The village was attacked in the night, blood, screams and so much pain. I couldn’t help. Corypheus is on his way.” The boy by Roderick’s side spoke fast, hid his face in the shadow under the wide brim of his hat. Or was it a helmet? It didn’t matter. What made Solas keep looking for his features was the vibrations. Confusion, but still determination, a strong bond with the Fade.  
This was not a mage. This was…  
Wait.  
“Corypheus?” Solas repeated slowly with a nervous flutter in his stomach. “Is that the name of…”  
“He is too loud, I couldn’t stay, too painful”, the boy continued with a slow nod, “The Elder One is full of rage.”  
Corypheus. Solas should have known. Well, if he managed to… Maybe he could find the orb sooner than expected, with a little luck.  
“We need to evacuate the village. Now.” Dirthara’s order made Chancellor Roderick lift his chin and look at her with confusion.  
Cullen shook his head and scratched his neck. “It’s too late for that.”   
“No, wait.” Chancellor Roderick snickered weakly and shook his head as the boy helped him up into sitting position. “This is insane. You truly are the Herald of Andraste. Maker forgive me…”  
“There is another way?” Dirthara crouched down in front of Roderick, spoke softer than before. When Roderick nodded, she sighed, which made Solas realize she’d been holding her breath. In that instant he came to the conclusion that this was why she was planning to leave. She never wanted Haven to be attacked. There was no way to keep all these people safe, and nowhere to flee. She had planned to choose her own battlefield, a place she knew with people whose abilities she trusted backing her up. Yes, the elves hailing from the Dales were known for their fierce guerilla warfare. Maybe the losses would have been lesser there.

But there was a plan. An insane one, but at least this would give the people a fighting chance.

The time lapse from the planning stage to the actual moment when all changed seemed so short. A troop of Templars and a small company of archers were stationed on the battlements under the command of Cassandra and Iron Bull; Dirthara and Solas would be the only mages, which in Solas’ point of view was a bad move. They were after all going to clash with the Venatori - all of them mages from the Tevinter Imperium. They would have needed the mages.  
“Solas, we cannot lose them”, Dirthara pointed out as she stared out into the darkness towards the horizon. “Don’t you see? We might not survive this.”  
“Not very hopeful today”, Solas pointed out with a frown.  
“I’m tired. I don’t like to make plans in a whim”, Dirthara excused herself, “I would have hoped…”  
“Yes, I know.” Solas sighed and looked for the first signs of the Elder One and his troops.

And just then he saw the first signs of life. In the distance, just below the snowy mountains, first just a thin line of torches, but soon they were pouring down into the valley. A waterfall of fire rolling down the hillside on the other side of the valley.  
They waited. And waited. Until there was no more lights finding their way over the mountain top.  
“Now!”   
Dirthara’s shout echoed through the silence. The catapults were fired with loud creaking noises, and as they were loaded again the clicking sounds of the cogs and gears gave their nervous waiting a beat. It was too dark to see. Not until the lights at the top of the mountain were dimmed, then completely blacked out, they knew. The avalanche on the other side of the valley would swallow at least half of the upsurging horde, which would both give them some time and straighten the odds. The untouched snow outside the barricades was a stark contrast to what was to expect. Soon, this peaceful haven of theirs would be stained in blood, soot and fire.

And then, as if fate was laughing them straight in their faces, the hope they had for survival was diminished. A dragon flew across the sky, a dark shadow against the moonlit night above. A roar, the sound of air against its wings as it flew closer. Solas gave Dirthara a quick glance, and their eyes met.  
“Bull, Cassandra, we have to make some new arrangements”, Dirthara declared. “I will need your help to take down the dragon.”

Dirthara

“Dirthara!”  
A whisper through the darkness, or maybe an echo of an old memory, then silence. Cold, so cold, the howling sound of wind. Andruil’s golden bow, somewhere in a fading memory, Dirthara remembered that the Huntress crafted it from a torm and the howls of the southwind.  
“Dirthara!”  
Louder, but still just strumming the strings of memories, like a familiar melody. It got warmer somehow, as if the waves of sound could make that difference. Maybe it could? And the wind kept howling, as if it was crying. Ghilan’nain, at the foot of the mountain, filling the remaining crate with her tears.  
“Dirthara!”  
The wind - was it breathing? With every breath a swirl of hot air. With every breath, that word. A faded memory of hidden secrets, revealed as little nuggets of truth. Seeker of truth. Follow the path, Vir Dirthara, find the knowledge. This darkness, it felt safe, but the howling cries took the shape of a black wolf with glowing red eyes. So many eyes, they saw right through. So what was true?  
“Dirthara.”  
A beat. Thumping like horse’s hooves over the plain. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. A sense of relief, a warm embrace, then suddenly the beat took a different path. Ba-da-dum. So familiar, and yet so different, that little thing that made the whole world flutter. A cadence of ancient sadness, but not as lonely anymore. The eyes in the darkness meant well, and the howling wind wasn’t crying. A truth to be found?  
“Dirthara, you need to wake up.”  
She sat up with a jolt and a gasp for air, eyes wide open. Turned her head to look around, but it was too dark to see and the sudden motion made the world spin. She had to sit still for a moment and just breathe to not throw up, which gave her time to adjust. A green light reflecting on the surfaces around her and the howling of the wind, the cold hard rock under her hands.   
A cave.  
“I must have hit my head pretty hard”, Dirthara murmured, and her voice echoed, words multiplied beyond recognition. What was this place, and how did she end up here? She stood up slowly, grunted from pain when she tried to move, kept her balance by leaning against the cold stone wall. Bruised, and she couldn’t rest much weight on her left foot. Sprained ankle, probably a concussion. She must have fallen.  
Dirthara looked towards the ceiling of the cave. Reflection of snow several feet above.  
“Huh. I’m lucky to be alive!”  
But the walls were too steep and there was nothing to hold on to.  
Who was she kidding, she couldn’t climb back up; she was a useless climber. And in this battered stage? Forget about it. Dirthara gave the snow a longing glance and sighed before she kept moving.   
The wind. It was howling through the cave - there had to be another way. At least she hoped so.  
That green light though, rather menacing. She was familiar enough with veilfire to know a rift was close by.  
Damn it, she would have to fight her way out of the cave. In this state? Very likely. Now, where was her staff...

Dirthara managed to get out in one piece, but outside of the cave it wasn’t much better.  
A full storm.   
Snow, finding its way into her coat, into her eyes, nose and mouth. The cold made the bones in her fingers feel like they would shatter into frozen shards and her feet were numb. The moon pouring light over the snow could have been more than a beautiful sight that night, but the snowfall was so heavy she couldn’t see.   
As long as she kept walking she would at least stay a little bit warmer, but in this blistering snow she couldn’t even know if she’d been walking in a circle or if she was making progress. She fell, had to breathe for a moment to be able to stand up again, to move further without losing balance. It all felt so pointless, as if she was caught inside a snow globe, a world that never changed. Why was she fighting the inevitable?  
Dirthara fell forward yet again in the snow with a grunt.   
The yellow light from the fire and the sound of rain against the tent. A warm blanket wrapped around her, a cup in her hands, filled with steaming hot broth made from rabbit. Father was home, Farras too, and mother… she was still her mother. The scent of wet smoke in the blanket, sparks following the warm air up, up, up. The pictures on the walls were dancing in the wind, and outside the wolves were howling.  
They never came this close to camp.  
“Nothing is inevitable.”  
Another jolt and a gasp for breath, her mouth was full of snow. The wolves, they were close, but not approaching. She could hear them clearly through the wind. Dirthara lifted her head slowly. Why were they out in this weather? They should…  
Dirthara forced herself back to her feet, stood still for a moment and listened. Something inside her said that she should follow the wolves, but that went against all her logic. If they were out such a night as this, they were hungry, and she was an easy prey.  
But in her dream...  
Before she had thought it through, her feet were moving, following the pack. At least that gave her a direction.  
“Fen’Harel is guiding me”, she murmured to herself, then chuckled to the irony of it all. This was madness. Was she really awake? If not...  
She stumbled over something and fell again. Stayed flat on the ground for a while just to breathe before she got back up, realized soon enough that she had found a fire site. Someone had been making camp here, and not too long ago.  
The wolves. They had led her here. She was sure of it, how strange it ever may seem.  
“Wolves, huh?” She shook her head and kept striding forward. She would most certainly fall into a trap.

She crawled, walked and stumbled forward, followed the howls. The cold was the only thing that reminded her of the harsh reality, the rest was just a blur. But as the night was reaching the end she was still moving blindly through the chaos. Climbing, for every second step forward she slipped backwards. With the early light of dawn came a vision of fires in the distance.   
Life. She wasn’t alone anymore.  
Her voice couldn’t carry her shouts through the wind, and every breath made her chest burn, but she ran. Civilization, a camp, a village, anything. Her legs felt heavy and every muscle was screaming from pain, but she could already feel the warmth from the fires, knew how her fingers would hurt as the blood rushed back into them.


	13. Skyhold

Solas

He should have stayed. Why did he listen to her, why didn’t he…  
“You must find her!” he shouted to Cullen and Leliana, too upset to keep his temper. Wild gestures expressed all the words he couldn’t find and his pacing had resulted in a short but very deep track just outside his tent. “Without her, all is lost!”   
“We can’t find what isn’t there.” Leliana’s calm voice mirrored Solas’ resignation, but they expressed it so differently. The search parties had returned empty handed, time after time. Not a sign of her, not even a trace. Was she lost under the masses of snow?  
“She can’t be dead. This is impossible.” Or at least he didn’t want to believe it. He clinged on to that thin thread of hope, but he knew how brittle it was. Their camp proved it too. Crying children, disoriented people looking down the mountainside at the place where Haven once had stood. Injured, afraid, hiding in their own bubbles of silent pain.

That night the storm came over them. By then, it was nothing but desperation keeping Solas together.   
Maybe she had left? Maybe she was on her way back to the coast or on her way to Kirkwall? When he for a short moment thought this was it, decided that she had to be dead, he was filled with such an indescribable pain that he couldn’t think straight. Fragments of images; her smile, slightly crooked as if she was up to something; her deep voice when she spoke and how her lips puckered around every word as if she tried to keep them to herself; but most of all - her cadence. That beat with which she added color in his life.  
These feelings were confusing, he couldn’t see the logic behind them.They were friends, nothing more.   
But she had told him a story from her past because she knew he wouldn’t like it. She was pushing him away. It was hurtful, but he couldn’t see the point for such reactions; he wasn’t even trying to do anything about this… attraction or whatever it was, he had kept these feelings to himself and never acted upon them.  
After giving this a lot of thought he came to another conclusion. Her reason was not based on his behaviour; if it had been, she was frank enough to tell him. She thought of him as a distraction from her cause. This new perspective made his already affected self become even more infatuated by her than before. She might be of a passionate nature, but she kept her head cold. A feature that impressed him more than anything.

This was what made him focus. He had to sleep, had find her in the fade. He couldn’t bare the thought of losing her, she was too important. He had said the same thing a thousand years earlier, but at the end he had done nothing. He had lost her too. Solas wouldn’t do the same mistake twice.   
But when he couldn’t find her, he got reckless. He couldn’t hear her mind, couldn’t find her light and least of all see where she had gone before the avalanche. As far as he was concerned, she never left. The disturbing thought of being alone again caused Solas to send the wolves to search, ask the spirits to look along the roads towards Redcliffe, the boats sailing north through Lake Calenhad docks, the Waking Sea. He shouted her name with the risk of disturbing a less friendly demon in the process.   
Then he heard her, and his heart skipped a beat.   
Or rather, he heard her cadence. Those fast iambs that made him think of spring. Now more than anything was his mind filled with sunlight - there was hope. He heard her, but at first so silent he almost thought his mind was playing tricks with him. Still in doubt, he followed the sound as he kept shouting her name, and for every step forward Dirthara’s familiar beat got louder.  
Don’t get your hopes up, not just yet.   
It was slower, weaker - this might just be a fading memory. Under the mountains, far beneath the snow; if this was truly her, she was lucky to be alive. Or very talented.  
When he finally found her, his joy found no boundaries. A pale image of her usually glowing self, but he couldn’t contain himself anymore. His entire being was for a moment larger than life itself and he couldn’t prevent to rush towards her and embrace her, hold her close to his chest as he cried and kissed her forehead.  
Just moments later he woke up. More confused than ever. In retrospect, that embrace had been foolish; just as foolish as it had been to drop his guard. She made him lose focus. Strong feelings, he had never been very good at handling them, but this was… He was emotionally unstable.  
Love? He had asked himself that question before. Sure, he had loved before too, but he loved Dirthara so much that she made him forget how it felt to hate himself.   
Although, love was such a wide concept. Maybe it was just that feeling he loved: to forget how it felt to never forgive oneself.

Solas knew the wolves would guide her, but it wasn’t until the storm had passed and the sun was climbing over the mountains that he heard the excitement. People clamoring and waving.  
“Look! The Herald is back!”  
“But I thought she was dead, how is that even possible?”  
“Isn’t it obvious? She’s beyond death, because she’s the divine voice of the maker, Andraste’s harbinger of truth.”  
“And she brings the dawn!”  
The conversations around Solas grew louder, but he couldn't do anything but smile. In the distance, he saw her come with the morning sun, the red light making her shadows long and dark against the white snow, and he could understand why the people around him believed her to be something out of this world. In the strong light she almost looked like she was glowing, and the higher the sun rose, the stronger was her impact. What Solas felt though was something completely different. Her presence was like a clear day in spring; he felt the subtle warmth on his skin, could almost hear the ice crackle and melt, felt the crocus and snowdrops unfold.  
She was alive.

A strange symbiosis, some kind of magnetism; she was his shadow as much as he was hers. A fearful thought; he had known that kind of connection before and experienced what it wrought. A bond like that was empowering at first, but it never ended well. Falon’Din and Dirthamen had been the two sides of the same coin, and as the betrayal cut the bond in half, everything fell to pieces like shattered glass. A weakness. But even though this was his thoughts, his eyes strayed towards the tent where Dirthara slept. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, and even in her sleep her presence never ceased to attract his focus. This was the weakness. And the fact that he wasn’t sure if he would be able to control his actions if he got too close, either physically or mentally.  
Maybe if he gave her a piece of the truth, maybe she would…  
No, she was Dalish.  
But building a… hm. anything, a friendship. Building a friendship on lies, it never worked. 

Solas was pulled out of his thoughts by song. He turned his head as more voices joined in, studied the scene in front of him with confusion at first, then with amusement.  
Dirthara was awake, and in front of her, the entire camp was kneeling. He had seen this before. The eyes of the people speaking of adoring worship, their idol a young female elf with the exact same expression of surprise as the hymn grew stronger and echoed between the mountaintops. Yes, he had seen it before. Depending on the height of the fall, the impact differed, but there was always a fall.

He should give her a nugget of truth - maybe it would keep her on the ground.  
He approached her when the song had ended, tapped her on her shoulder as he passed by. “A word.” With his nerves fluttering on the inside, the only way he could hide it was behind a stern face; his fingers kept burning after that simple touch and he almost lost his breath when she turned around and looked at him. He had to keep his distance, this was getting out of hand.  
She followed, but as they left camp they didn’t move side by side. She stayed behind and they walked under silence until Solas stopped in the untouched snow around a torch and lit it. He cleared his throat and turned to her.  
“The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting”, he started, but wasn’t sure about how to continue without being suspicious. A word of advice, perhaps. “Her faith is hard-won, lethallin, worthy of pride… Save one detail. The threat Corypheus wields, the orb he carried. It is ours. Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the conclave.”  
Dirthara was still pale, she wasn’t well enough to carry on yet. He should have waited. To Solas’ surprise though, she furrowed her eyebrows and showed her usual determined stubbornness.  
“If that’s the fact, we must find out how he survived and win the orb back. I must prepare for the worst - their reaction when they learn about the orb’s origins.” Dirthara sighed and nodded vaguely towards the camp.  
Solas was surprised that she didn’t ask more questions about it, but he appreciated her quick step from problem to solution. And relieved that she didn’t let the people’s adoration get to her head. She was still just being her, or as she liked to call it: “a Dalish girl playing with fire”. He wasn’t sure if she understood how well her words fitted the scene he had before him, and how wrong she was at the same time.  
“In the end they might blame the elves”, Solas agreed, but added: “Their faith in you is growing though. You alone can turn this around.”  
“Huh.” Dirthara looked down at her hands, and her dark eyelashes made a stark contrast against her pale cheeks. “You’re saying I should stay with the Inquisition, after all that’s happened? If it wasn’t for me, all these people would still have their homes…”  
Home.   
Home!  
Yes, he should return home. He could offer her shelter. Skyhold wasn’t what it used to be, but it was large enough to house them all. “Scout to the north, be their guide. There is a place waiting for a force to hold it. Where the Inquisition could build… grow.”   
That was the least he could do.  
“I still think you should lead them Solas.” She lifted her gaze and their eyes met. “I’m not strong enough for this.”  
Solas shook his head. This was not his time. “Corypheus has changed the world, and at the same time he changed you. As much as I would like to take that burden off your shoulders, I cannot. I promise though, that I will always be by your side, one way or another.” He paused, then swallowed. “Until you ask me to leave, that is.”  
Maybe he was a bit too forward, maybe he needed to take a step back. She looked at him in silence, a long moment where Solas’ heart was beating faster and he could hear the blood rush through his veins like a strong current.  
Then she smiled. A resigned smile though, but she smiled. “Thank you, Solas. For everything.”  
For everything? Oh no. She knew.

Dirthara

“So… How did you do it?” Dirthara turned her head and waited for Solas to catch up with her. To be honest, she needed to wait for the rest of the people too; when travelling in such a large group everything was slowed down into a crawl.  
“How did I do what?” Solas kept his gaze lowered - maybe he was careful to not slip in the snow, but Dirthara was starting to believe he was avoiding her. Not like before, when he just frowned and looked away, but answered her questions as politely as ever anyway. No, this was different.   
Which was why she was starting to suspect that the unsettling flashbacks…   
Or whatever it was, she wasn’t sure, fantasies maybe.   
Anyway, the feeling of being embraced by, well, what she at one point in her confused mind had believed to be Fen’Harel. Mind-boggling. She didn’t have much trust in faith, which was her main reason for feeling slightly unnerved about it all. For as long as she could remember, her belief stretched just as far as to make Fen’Harel and all the other deities the figments of somebody’s rather twisted imagination. Dreaming about the trickster but giving him Solas’ cadence made her think that she was either going crazy or there was something about Solas she needed to figure out.  
Was it a warning? According to the stories, the Dread Wolf would protect against evil spirits - but always with a price. So what was his demands, and how was this connected to Solas?  
And when that damned elf continued to avoid her questions, she got even more suspicious.  
“How did you find me?” She asked, mainly because ‘So, you and Fen’Harel are close, right?’ would be too straight forward and Solas was too clever to be startled by such a comment.   
Solas snickered, looked almost shy by her side. “Did I?”  
Still avoiding questions, huh? Well, let’s see about that. Dirthara gave him a sly grin. “Please. I could recognize your rhythm anywhere.”   
“Ah.” Solas bit his bottom lip, sighed and looked up. “Well, there you have your answer.”   
Damn it. He slithered past that one too.  
Dirthara grunted. “My rhythm, is that it? You must have extremely good hearing then.”  
Solas just shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. “I’m more familiar with the fade, everything is easier there.”  
Hmph. Well, logically… Yes, all the senses were peaked in the fade, and if one was as in tune with that realm as Solas, maybe even more so. Something wasn’t right though...   
Her thoughts were interrupted by Solas:  
“We are almost there. Just over this top, and you will see it.”  
“I take it you found Skyhold in the fade as well?” Dirthara muttered, but her frustration was quickly forgotten when she finally reached the top of the steep hillside and peeked over it at what was hiding beyond the snowy ridge.   
Dirthara gasped for air, lost words and judgment for a moment. She just stared, while sliding backwards in the snow; hardly noticed how Solas grabbed her to keep her from falling.  
“It’s… it’s perfect!” she whispered. On the other side of a deep valley, resting on top of the snowy cliffs like a gem hidden in plain sight… “Remarkable! How could a place like this remain forgotten and unknown?” Skyhold was not just a roof over their heads, it was an impenetrable fortress.  
“This place is special”, Solas replied with that distant tone in his voice. “The veil is old here.”  
Dirthara turned her head and looked at him. A smile, that usual restraint, but there was something in his posture. Pride. As if he was offering her a gift. Skyhold was one of his secrets, and if the veil was old here… Solas had most certainly been here before, and not only in the fade.  
Oh, Dread Wolf, guide me. What is it I should be aware of? My closest friend, who has no worldly possessions, found me what I needed the most. Are you suggesting that there is a price?  
As the thought took form in her head, Solas turned his head and studied her face under furrowed eyebrows. “You will be safe here”, he murmured, then cleared his throat and made a vague gesture over his shoulder as he took a step away from her. “All of you.”  
Not until then, when she felt the cold air through her coat again, did she notice that Solas had been holding her since they reached the mountaintop. Where his warmth had radiated against her back, she now felt how something was missing, as if he had ripped a piece of her skin with him when he backer away.  
Damn it, not again. Dirthara sighed and took the last few strides over the ridge. Pretended to give Skyhold a scrutinous inspection from the distance while she scrambled herself back in order. Spirit and will, would they ever cooperate?  
“There will be a lot of work”, she said with a loud voice as she forced herself to concentrate on the matter ahead rather than the man behind. “I doubt we have the money to rebuild all of it. We will all have to pitch in - one way or another.”  
“Are you afraid of a little hard work?” Solas replied, maybe with a hint of irritation in his voice.  
“Not at all”, Dirthara assured him and made a gesture towards her own scrawny arms as she added: “Just not that capable.”   
Not to mention she was the least handy person she had ever known, including her father.  
“I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, Solas.” Dirthara turned around to look at the hoard of people coming after them. The children were tired, as were the elders, and they had all fallen back together with the injured. It had been a long journey and in whatever state Skyhold was in, it was better than what they had come from. “This will be easy to defend from intrusion, and we will have a roof over our heads”, She added, but her mind was drifting.  
All these people. Why would they look to her for help, when she was the reason they were in such a dire predicament? Neither Corypheus nor Alexius would have put any of them in danger if it hadn’t been for her. Dirthara looked down at the glowing scar in her hand. That little thing, a key to the veil to reach the Fade; that was what they wanted. She was just attached to it, nothing more. As soon as they had settled down, she should leave. Cullen and Cassandra were right. She might have been the face of the Inquisition for some time, but they needed an official leader to carry the title ‘Inquisitor’. She was too young, and they were right about that too. This scar in her hand had given her a different purpose, and for everybody’s safety…  
“We should keep moving.” Solas followed her gaze down the hillside and leaned on his staff. “The more we can prepare for the injured before they arrive, the better.”  
Dirthara nodded and turned around. His words only proved what she already was convinced of. He was better suited for the role as Inquisitor. Their best choice, really. Dirthara glanced at him once more over her shoulder before she started to walk.  
She would miss him. 

Useless. She was completely useless at everything. Dirthara let the hammer fall as hard as she could once more, and yet again she missed the bent nail with a loud bang.  
“Damn it.” What was she even doing here? It wasn’t like she was helping. Bent nails on the ground around her, marks in the timber from her tools. She stretched her back and had a quick look around the yard. Everybody was working on something. Sera and Varric was just as herself involved in the project of building the timber frame for the new front wall to the tavern. Yes, tavern. Skyhold might have looked like a fort on the outside, but on the inside there was a small town. There had once been stores around the yard, and if one scraped off the top layer of dirt on the ground, there was stone paving underneath. With a little work, this would be a beautiful place to call home. Dirthara could almost see it in front of her; a small square just inside the gates and a row of small houses around it. Some of them was already finished, only the thatchers were still working on the roofs.  
They had been here for two weeks now, and soon enough the people would be able to leave their tents and move into better accommodations.   
Two weeks. She couldn’t even fool herself anymore. She was not useful, so why was she staying?  
“I thought you said carpeting was easy, Blackwall”, Dirthara muttered as she glanced towards Solas. His back was turned against her as he was putting up plaster on the lathing between the timber frames on one of the smaller houses. The yard was full of engaged volunteers, and they were all working fast, almost as if they had made hammering an artform. It looked easy, at least when others did it.   
Blackwall had stopped his sawing and was looking at Dirthara while scratching his head. “You know, if you hold the hammer with one hand instead of two, Inquisitor…” He began after a while.  
“There’s no Inquisitor around here”, Dirthara pointed out as she lifted the hammer and slammed it against the nail with all her power. She missed -again - and cursed.  
“Well, true or not, you are our Inquisitor by rule of...” Blackwall paused for a moment, probably studying her struggle with these… overdimensioned tools. “No offence, but you’re making that harder than it has to be.”   
Dirthara grunted in response and gave it another go, this time with more luck. She could have given herself a standing ovation when she finally hit the nail, but instead she looked up, panting. “I can’t hold this big thing with one hand, it’s too heavy.”  
Blackwall reached for his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his face. “Is that so?” He glanced at Sera, which made Dirthara look in that direction too. The elf was working fast and methodically, three nails hanging from her bottom lip in the corner of her mouth.   
“Sure, it looks easy when she’s doing it”, Dirthara muttered. Sera looked up and paused for a moment before she returned to her work with a curse.  
“It’s the other way around, Kid”, Varric snorted without looking up from his work, “you make it look difficult.”  
“You’re too elfy”, Sera muttered, making the nails in her mouth wiggle with every vowel.   
“Too elfy?” Dirthara snickered. “That’s a load of bull…”  
“Sod off.” Sera paused and offered a wide and hearty grin. “Oh, and dibs on the corner room. The one in the tower.”  
Blackwall laughed and grabbed the saw again. “Sure, the roof is reshingled, but the stairs aren’t fixed yet.”  
“Pfft.” The nails flew out of Sera’s mouth. “I’ve already placed all my stuff there, it’s mine now.”  
Blackwall sighed and returned his gaze to Dirthara. “You don’t have to do this you know.”  
Dirthara grinned back, but dropped the hammer to the ground. “Sod off.” She knew when she wasn’t wanted, and thus far she had been more in the way than helping.   
It was about time to leave, but before that she wanted to…  
Another glance towards Solas.  
She wanted to say goodbye.


	14. Time apart

Solas

It felt strange to be back. Not the fact that he had returned to Skyhold, that was… well. It was difficult to not reminisce on how it used to be, but even harder to keep his low profile. Not that he needed thanks, there were just so many memories to this place, and he would have liked to share them.  
The old frescos in the rotunda had disappeared with time. Not really that surprising, he hadn’t really had a reason to paint something new during the last year. Some remains of red paint could still be detected, the form of a woman but a glimpse of what weather had removed since then. He had thought she would be the hope that people needed, but he had been wrong.  
It was grim to suggest that her fate was for the better, but in retrospect it was her death that changed the world, not her actions.  
New times offered new possibilities, and of course new inspiration. The difference? This time he knew he was right. Dirthara was more than just a hope.  
There was plaster left, it hadn’t dried yet. He could start by the door and work his way around; the walls would be nice and white in just a couple of days. He didn’t know what to paint just yet, but something would come up.  
Something. Someone. A pair of blue eyes and a mouth that was a bit too wide for her face, a vallaslin in blue over sun kissed skin.  
No, not her. She was not just a face, he wouldn’t be able to do her justice. Her actions, he should...  
Besides, that wouldn’t be very wise. He would miss her too much when she was gone and only the pictures remained. He’d wandered down that path before, and this time it had become something similar to an obsession. He’d seen it in the faces of the people of Haven too, a belief beyond a pretty face.  
Chemistry. Like the templars’ lyrium addiction. He was not yet looking beyond magic, but he wouldn’t be surprised when it happened. He couldn’t be certain, of course, but her spirit…  
Steps just outside the door, someone running. Then silence, followed by the familiar dislodging wrench in the doorknob and an almost inaudible entrance. He knew it was her, even before he saw her and for a moment he wasn’t even frustrated with himself for reacting like he did. Sweaty palms, a sudden interest of his own image when he figured there probably was white stains of splattered plaster all over his face.  
That chemistry, a toxin in his brain nothing more, a disease that would subdue with time. The irritation came when she smiled - it made his stomach flip and he dropped the spatula with plaster on the floor.  
He could have cursed. He should have thought of covering the floor - there would be smudges even if he managed to get most of the lime off the stones.  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dirthara stopped just inside the door, closed it behind her back and crossed her arms. Not a determined stance, she rather looked like she didn’t know what else to do with them. She turned her head and looked around before she leaned her back against the wall. Luckily, not a plastered one. “So, you decided to settle down here? In this room?”  
Leliana’s crows cawed above their heads, the echo of their fluttering wings made Solas become aware of how strange it may seem. He couldn’t tell her that he missed the company of crows, that would just sound stupid, but it felt reassuring having them this close. The bottom floor of the rotunda would hardly be considered private quarters though, messengers going back and forth between Leliana and the other members of the inner circle. A perfect spot for someone who wanted to hear a bit of everything, but Dirthara knew that Solas valued his privacy.  
“It is like sleeping under the stars in the safety of one’s own home”, Solas replied with a shrug. “Not too warm, close to the library, what more could a man ask for?”  
Dirthara lifted one eyebrow and snickered. “Less bird droppings?”  
“Ah.” Solas grinned and crouched down to pick up the spatula with plaster from the floor, mainly to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. “I have put up barriers.”  
“Of course.” Dirthara sighed and scratched her neck. “Barriers have always been your strongest suit.”  
Solas almost dropped the spatula again. “You came here to discuss something, I presume?” Unintentionally a bit too sharp. He put the spatula in the bucket of plaster and placed it on the floor beside him before he rose again, this time with more than just a nervous flutter in his stomach.  
Dirthara flinched and furrowed her eyebrows. A short pause, not longer than a blink of an eye but so intense. That awkward silence that made Solas become aware of his manners. A quick smile, a bit too late and the same words rephrased would at least make his conscience a bit less heavy to carry. He walked across the room and sat down in the couch, offered Dirthara to join him with a gesture. “You wanted to speak, lethallan. I’m listening.”  
She shook her head and remained by the door. “Um… I…”  
“Yes?”  
Dirthara took a deep breath. So, she found this difficult to talk about? Not good.  
Another short pause, then she spoke. Fast.  
“I’m leaving for the Fallow Mire tomorrow.” She was studying her boots as if she had found something about them that was really interesting.  
“My things are already packed.” Fallow Mire, that meant useful herbs. Dawn Lotus to be precise. Good, he could take this opportunity to…  
“You’re not coming with me.” Dirthara looked up and their eyes met. Yet another awkward silence followed.  
“Ah.” Bollocks. Well, on the positive side, she wasn’t here to discuss more pressing matters, but this was unsettling nonetheless. Solas cleared his throat. “So, you are accepting the challenge? Is that really such a good idea?”  
“You’re avoiding the subject, Solas. You want to ask the question why, because you know there is a purpose for me asking you to stay. I should be truthful with you...” Dirthara took another deep breath, collecting herself as she started pacing back and forth over the floor. She moved silently, even with the boots on her feet, maybe one of the few advantages of being Dalish. “I cannot do this anymore, walk around in the dark around our little secrets. I find no reason for them, no logic behind them, and still they are there like an impenetrable wall between us.”  
Solas swallowed and wet his lips. “Sometimes the truth is too complicated to explain”, he murmured in response. But he was relieved - at least for now. She didn’t know. Sure, suspected something, but she didn’t know.  
“An excuse doesn’t make it easier”, Dirthara pointed out, “the walls are still there, and they will not allow me to proceed. I need to…” She paused and snickered. “I need to have a purpose, and I cannot find it here. If that means bashing a few skulls, that’s what I’m going with.”  
“That’s not who you are.” Solas looked up and shook his head. “Don’t let this… anger lead you away from your track.”  
“Anger?” Dirthara stopped her pacing. “I’m looking for allies, and this is the language the Avvar seems to speak. This Hand of Korth issued a challenge and I’m responding. The Inquisition is an unpolished group of separatists, and we will have to find friends among the likes.”  
She returned to her pacing and Solas leaned back in the couch with a sigh. “And you want me to stay here.” A disturbing thought, since her safety had become one of his main priorities.  
“I need you here”, Dirthara began, and as she walked back and forth over the floor, her hands were folding and unfolding each other in a nervous dance. “I’d like to say it is because you can find meaning in your actions here, but in reality it is…” She sighed, looked almost desperate. “My priority should always be the people, but it isn’t. I need to clear my head.”  
And by that, she left the rotunda with haste. Not another word, all she left behind was Solas in his couch. “I will be in your way”, he murmured and scratched his chin. She had stolen his line. 

She was gone the next day, and together with her, Sera, Blackwall and Cassandra. They must have left early, before sunrise; breakfast in the kitchen felt strangely lonely despite the fact that he was surrounded by friends. Varric, hungover as always with a cup of tea and a hard boiled egg in front of him; Iron Bull proposing the importance of a healthy breakfast, eating ham and sausages with a passion beyond health. Dorian had overslept, which Solas suspected he did on purpose since it happened every day. Only Cole seemed to view the scene around the table in the same manner as himself. Gloomy. The apples in the bowl in front of him lost their color, his breakfast tasted like paper and the scent of Lily of the Valley was sorely missed. A longing that he never had expected, not even after the supposed loss of her in Haven.  
“Empty, without colour, a wind plays through the barren fields”, Cole murmured without looking up, “You’re not alone.”  
At first Solas just furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, then he realized that the boy had mirrored his thoughts and in his compassionate nature tried to ease his pain.  
“I know.” Solas sighed.  
“Your conversations are getting stranger by the minute”, Varric muttered, “What are you talking about?”  
“Cole is trying to ease my frustration of being left here where I cannot help”, Solas replied.  
Iron Bull looked up from his plate with a suspicious look on his face. “You wanted to go to the Fallow Mire? Nothing but demons and undead there.”  
“And she’s facing them without my help”, Solas pointed out.  
Iron Bull lifted his eyebrows and nodded. “That’s also a way to put it.”  
“The kid is reasonable, her commands always have purpose.” Varric patted Solas on the shoulder with a distracted look on his face.  
“Yes, that’s my thought exactly, but… But what if…” Solas began, but was interrupted by Cole.  
“She is safe, Solas. You asked in your dream; Hope and Honor followed in her footsteps.”  
“Hope and Honor are too easily corrupted into fear and deceit”, Solas replied.

Dirthara

Another sleepless night, lit up by their campfire. Hissing in the damp weather, almost as if even the flames were protesting. The stench from the swamp faded after a while, as soon as one got used to it, but it felt like she never would be dry nor warm again. So, here she was, on her own in the middle of the night with an old book in her lap.  
Dirthara glanced over her shoulder towards the tents with a grunt. Cassandra could have fallen asleep on command; Blackwall too; and Sera…. Well, Sera disappeared for an hour and returned with a mischievous grin before she turned in for the night. Dirthara didn’t even dare to ask what that had been all about, but was certain she would notice the next day. It was just her and a couple of patrolling guards still moving about in the camp, and she could hardly discuss her thoughts with them.  
To be honest, not Sera or Blackwall either. And Cassandra would probably just say it was the will of the maker, meant to be or something similar. Very helpful indeed.  
“The big black sky over my head seemed distant when I knew that you could see me”, she murmured absentmindedly, even though she knew he wouldn’t hear her. Or maybe because she knew he was almost a continent away. She never added this to her calculations, how she had gotten used to the calmness seeping into her dreams when he was close. Her old fears returned with every step she took further away from him. What if she lost control again?  
And how did the Dread Wolf fit into this mess? It was nothing more than a faded memory, that vision from the cave, and she would have doubted its reality had it not been for that feeling of comfort. Her upbringing would have had her run, her doubt would have kept her indifferent, but instead the Lord of Tricksters gave her strength.  
A reason to believe there was something beyond the obvious that she should be aware of. Fen’Harel had offered her guidance, but with him there was always a price. Would it be worth it?  
Probably not.  
How much of the secrets would turn out to be lies?  
And whom did they belong to?  
Distrust. She hated it. Her dislike of it found its roots in her own work in the shadows, driven by desire rather than purpose; lost her focus from truth. A desire to lead where she wasn’t supposed to lead. Her actions would cause reactions in the end. With her in the Inquisition now, Hanin would have made a better First than that dimwit that had taken Dirthara’s place as second so long ago. Hanin would have been a better choice than herself, even though his ideas were old fashioned.  
Who was she kidding. He had won his place - he was better, period.  
On the other hand, he might have been here in her stead now. Or dead, just like the rest at the Conclave.  
Damn it, she used to believe in her goals, but now there was doubt. If Cullen believed she was too inexperienced for the task, was her ambitions really aligned with what needed to be done? Would she make the wisest choices? She didn’t have the proof to show it.  
There was one thing that gave her reassurance as she rose from the fireplace and crawled into her tent. Even though this serpentine trail of actions and reactions led over metaphorical mountains and through figurative valleys, her goal was honest.  
The people would always come first. All people. She needed to study the Avvar closely to be able to win them over; there was something her father once had said that had made her think that this was important: “The Aval’var stand with both their feet on the ground, but their heads are in the Fade.” For some reason, she got the feeling that the Avvar could carry a part of her own history, and ever since they left Skyhold, she had been reading everything she could find on the subject. There were parallels drawn between the Tevinter Old Gods and the gods of the Alamarri, but none were mentioned when it came to the elven pantheon. She found it strange; her father had often talked about the other likenesses between the tribes. She yawned and felt how her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. 

“You call this a path?” Sera grunted and threw a rock into the water. It hit the surface with a rather dissatisfying plop, which seemed to be the reason for the rather frustrated outburst that followed. "Mother pusbucket frigging bastard shitebag pissface! Eat it, you undead, son of an arse-nut rot-suck piece of...ugh!"  
Dirthara hissed between clenched jaws, too tired for patience with Sera’s impulsive temper and still too concerned about what she had dreamt when she finally fell asleep the night before. “Damn it, don’t disturb the water, how many times…?”  
“Hey, Sera?” Blackwall, who had been walking a couple of steps ahead along the drenched trail, stopped and turned around with one of his taunting grins. “You have something there - no, not there. Looks like splats of rotting brain. Yeah, right there on your shoulder.”  
“Seriously, Blackwall? Now?” Dirthara closed her eyes and slapped her forehead with a frustrated sigh. “Not good! Not good at all.”  
Sera responded with a shriek and leaped forward past the warden while brushing her shoulders frantically. “Ew! I touched it! Bastard! Crap!”  
Blackwall was about to fall over from laughter, Sera looked like she could kill him and Cassandra did what she could to keep a straight face.  
“Hush, keep it down”, she hissed, “By the Maker, you'll lure more of them here!”  
It had been like this all morning. As if the three others needed something happening all the time just to stay awake. Not that it felt like day - the clouds were so heavy it could have been dusk, and the pouring rain hardly made Dirthara’s mood any better. She could barely see more than five feet ahead through the fog and the eerie silence made her jump from surprise with every caw from a bird, every splash from a toad. The sounds didn’t echo, but seemed to be louder and sharper just because she couldn’t see.  
Wait.  
Light, just ahead.  
“Hurry up”, she muttered and started to move faster. “There’s the next beacon. We need to reach there before they find us.”  
This was… Well, how would Sera have put it? Flogging ass-cream? Probably. This was flogging ass-cream. How would they manage to get to this apparently rather arrogant young Avvar, when flogging ass-crap were hoarding around them like flies to honey?  
On the brighter side, she had gotten some of the herbs Solas wanted, but for the record this mission had been a huge fiasco from the start. If she had known Sera would be such a nerve wreck the moment demons and undead showed up, she would have brought somebody else. Varrick, for example - he used to be level headed. At least until it came to red lyrium.

An hour later, they hadn’t reached much further. Yes, they had passed the beacon, and of course they were attacked; but after that, things had gone even further down hill. So much so, they were completely out of potions and Cassandra looked like she had been run over by a hoard of druffalo. Which pretty much summarized the experience, except from the druffalo part.  
“I need to learn that warding spell Solas throws around all the time”, Dirthara noted as she took a step off the track and stumbled knee deep into the sludgy water. The slurping sound from her boots as she returned to the track was very soon accompanied by hoarse grunts and extended moans further out in the bog, splashes from something moving about. No, several somethings. “Damn it. Here they come.”  
Sera grabbed an arrow from over her shoulder but didn’t nock the bow straight away. A whine found its way out of her mouth. “Shit, crap, stupid bloody arse-cakes! Even the fade smells like arse here!”  
Dirthara was bound to agree. “An arse with a rather breathtaking perfume. And he’s standing right there.” She pointed towards an undead archer and forced a fire storm out of her hand.

And when it turned out they would have to make camp in the middle of this foul odor, it felt like they had reached rock bottom. Tired, dirty, wet and frustrated, Dirthara went to sleep thinking that maybe Solas had been right. This was not a very good idea. Well, to stay optimistic, she did at least manage to fall asleep straight away for once.

*

His beat reached her long before she could see him. That familiar feeling of calm presented itself, made the darkness of the night seem brighter, and then he was there beside her. Beyond him, her dream was empty and colorless, a reflection of her own dissatisfaction of her situation.  
“I couldn’t see you in your dreams last night”, he murmured, and his voice was shivering. “I’m glad to find you here again. You know, you really had me worried.”  
A faint smile, that shy look on his face when he realized that he had showed more of himself than he wanted and lowered his gaze towards his right hand. Busy, agile fingers playing with a loose strap on a pouch by his belt, tying knots on it and untying them.  
Dirthara shrugged. “I couldn’t fall asleep last night, and when I did I dreamt that I was dying.” Or more precise - she had dreamt of all the realities where she didn’t exist or never reached adulthood, just to see what difference it would make. Since she couldn’t calculate her future, she didn’t know what to expect, but she could at least abdicate from the burden of her believed responsibility for the accident at the conclave. It would always end the same, it was not her doing.  
She had seen something though that wasn’t very uplifting - the reason for this dark night around her. Her every action led to this very moment, all her choices counted for, and she had always been and would always be the sole survivor from the conclave. This was her purpose, and she didn’t like it. Especially since she believed Cullen was right. She was too inexperienced.  
“I need your help”, she murmured and crossed her arms over her chest. “That ward you use, I’d really like to learn it.”  
Solas looked up and studied her face, his fingers stopped moving for a moment. “You died? Have you experienced the passage to the other side?” He paused, his eyes pinned on her as if he could see straight through her. “It didn’t offer satisfying answers.”  
Dirthara didn’t reply, just shook her head. If this was where she needed to be, she had a lot to learn, and she would have to learn it fast. “Please teach me Solas, I will need that ward to come back home and…” She took a deep breath, every nerve tingling as if they were electrified. Damn it, did it really have to be this difficult? They had known each other for half a year, lived under the same roof for almost as long - why couldn’t she just...  
“We need to talk”, she blurted out, and felt how one of the rocks on her shoulders fell. Not that far though. It was out there, and she felt like she was about to throw up.  
Well, she couldn’t avoid it any more, this strange sensation. She tried, and it was difficult.  
Solas kept studying her under silence, a still moment passed before he nodded. “Let’s talk, but not here.” Not his usual cadence. A rushed beat, as if the mere thought of an open conversation eye to eye with all cards on the table made him nervous.  
Thank the gods… if they existed. It wasn’t just her.  
Of course it wasn’t, who was she kidding? Their dialogues had only been smooth as long as discussed hypothetical facts and theories, but when it came to reality? Their reality in particular - nothing. It had been a growing problem since… Well, for Dirthara, it appeared when Solas almost… She could feel her ears become warmer, just from the thought of it. There was something indescribable between them, and it had grown into a barrier.  
So if he was willing to talk, it was time. Put an end to this… whatever it was. She nodded.


	15. Fade Tongue

Solas  
They walked side by side through the gates, but neither of them talked. Moved forward aimlessly, it seemed at first, but after a while they stopped outside the chantry, and strangely, it wasn’t until then Dirthara seemed to notice where they were. Maybe she had been lost in thoughts just like himself.  
“Why here?” she wondered, and Solas couldn’t give her more than his own reasons.  
“It’s familiar.” They turned around and looked towards the sky. Yes, Haven would always be special. This was where...  
“...I sat beside you while you slept”, he murmured, as a smile slowly grew on his face. Then he realized he’d been talking out loud, cleared his throat and added: “Studying the anchor.”  
“That can’t have taken you too long”, Dirthara replied and snickered. Ah, their neutral ground gave neutral subjects to discuss. Haven. It was safe. Somewhat familiar to both of them. A sunny day, the snow glistening on the barricades, a cool breeze, people in the streets.  
Who was he trying to fool? Solas could hear his own pulse in his ears, tasted blood in his mouth even though he knew he wasn’t bleeding. Everything enhanced, even those things he found difficult.  
And she wanted to talk.  
Hands sweating, had to count to keep his breath steady. So talk, just say it. Tell her everything. About the foci, the Fade, the point of all this, how she never was meant to carry the anchor, how she... What was the worst thing that could happen?  
She could… She could lose her purpose.  
He didn’t dare to look at her.  
“You wanted to learn a warding spell.” Fenedhis lasa, he couldn’t even keep his beat, the sun would fall down over their heads and the snow become a pale whisper of his memories if he didn’t concentrate. “To ask spirits for their help, you must be humble.”  
For now, this was truth. It shouldn’t make his legs shake. But real truth was never just black or white, and she deserved it.  
She really did.  
“You use the essence of the Fade.” Dirthara snorted and shook her head. “Of course.”  
Solas furrowed his eyebrows. “No, it’s not like that. Through the years I’ve found a more stable magical pattern, you need to redirect ambient energy to your personal aura, which means you will have to snap the veil-warp to enhance relative energy.” Simple. Discussing techniques was safe.  
“So that little flair you do with your staff…?” Dirthara grabbed her staff from her back and showed what she meant, held it firmly with both hands and then gently formed a quick circle with its base while making whooshing sound effects with her mouth.  
Kind of cute, really. Solas snickered, noticed how the energy in the air around them changed. Playful, a beat he recognized, the colours around her returning. She felt it too.  
Her questions, always wanting to know more, her wish to understand every little detail. This was what had made him absolutely fascinated from the very first time she spoke.  
“Hm, yes. But still you will need to befriend the spirits for the strongest effect”, he pointed out, and then the subject was depleted. He cleared his throat and Dirthara took a deep breath, then they laughed nervously before they both began to speak at the same time.  
“So, this barrier…” Dirthara began.  
“You wanted to...” Solas said. They snickered again, and Solas could feel his pulse raise.  
This would be the end of a beautiful friendship, but she wanted the truth. He should tell her. Solas cleared his throat again.  
“That anchor in your hand…” How on Thedas was he supposed to reveal to her that she never was assumed to survive the anchor? Solas scratched his ear. “You were a mystery - you still are.”  
“Yeah. Very mysterious.” He didn’t have to see her to know she was mocking him. All in good fun, the wiser man’s way to defeat gravity. This was serious though, and if she wanted the truth, she needed to understand all of it. So he turned around, looked her straight in her eyes and decided to clear it up.  
“You would never return to life again, I was so sure of it”, he murmured, and for a moment a brief vision of her on the cell floor ghosted through his memory. It made him flinch. “You were never meant to… A mortal sent through the Fade… That day, when you woke up, I had planned to leave.”  
That was honest, and not a truth he was very proud of. If she hadn’t showed up as timely as she did by the rift…  
But he kept his eyes locked with hers. This was it, now or never. Her face when she looked back at him, so focused. Intense, as if she was processing his every word, even those he never spoke. His words were all that he had, and there was no one else who understood them as well as she did.  
There was a short pause before she shook her head in disbelief.  
“That doesn’t sound like you”, she pointed out, “I’ve never seen you run away from anything. And furthermore, whereto? The Breach threatened the entire world.”  
“Yes, I know, rather shortsighted.” Solas snickered and looked down at his hands. Found his pouch with herbs where a strap was about to break, tried to tie the ends together just to keep it whole for a little while longer. “I hoped to find solutions elsewhere. Cassandra wanted me executed if I didn’t show results, and even though I knew you were the only answer, I didn’t have much faith. And then…”  
“I woke up”, Dirthara filled in.  
Solas nodded and swallowed. Didn’t know how to proceed, didn’t see how he could tell her without making her hate him. “Right then I felt the whole world change.”  
“You… you felt the whole world change?” Dirthara repeated.  
Her every word, softly caressing his skin and giving him goosebumps. A voice that made everything inside of him sing and shiver. His mouth was dry, but he was alert enough to understand that he had made another slip.  
“Ehm, a figure of speech…” He felt how his ears heated. Figure of speech. She wasn’t stupid. These little pieces of his heart slipped through, every time he didn’t concentrate. Her eyes, he could drown and die then and there and still be happy about it. A perfect being, just as she always had been.  
“I’m aware of the metaphor”, Dirthara murmured and took a step closer. “Felt. That is the word I’m more curious about.”  
If he lost his face now, he lost it all. Felt. Yes, more than he could comprehend, even though he shouldn’t. She was as dangerous for him as he was for her. She would leave him empty or he would leave her furious. Still he remained, while she moved close enough for him to notice that familiar scent of lilies.  
Oh, how he had longed for her. Those little things, all of them a piece in a puzzle.  
“You change everything”, he whispered, and in that instance he knew why. She was everything - at least to him. And with his pulse beating in his ears he looked away, afraid of what he might do next. Confused, dizzy from his own thoughts.  
And that first time she touched him, really touched him, he wasn’t in his right mind, should have backed away. Her hand on his cheek, as she made him turn back to her shook him out of his senses. She said something, her face close to his, but he was already lost in her eyes, was almost expecting...  
Her lips just swept over his in a soft kiss, and then she turned away. The taste of her just a brief reflection, a single moment taken out of its full perspective. His head might be spinning but...  
Turned away?  
After that?  
No, no, no.  
Solas reached out, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back, she responded with a yelp. An act out of pure impulse; it surprised him as much as it surprised her, but when he realized what he had done it was already too late to turn back, to pretend this never happened. He wrapped his arms around her, felt her soft body against his and couldn’t let her go again. That intense feeling of connection, like magnetism he needed her closer than what reality could offer - it gave him goosebumps. He wanted more, wanted everything, all at once. It was nothing tender, no restraint when he leaned down to kiss her, only hunger. Her soft warm lips parted under his, her scent of lily of the valley, a taste of cinnamon - she made his world flip upside down, made his knees weak, and this was just a kiss.  
When he lifted his head, it was just to see if she was truly there. Nothing else mattered. If the sun fell down and the stars exploded, nothing but this moment would have meaning. And when she looked back at him, panting, her lips swollen and red, eyes dark and glossy, he still couldn’t believe it. This was a strange parallel reality that never happened, something that shouldn’t be, and she was… more than he could handle.  
He leaned back in and the tip of his nose brushed against hers. A short pause, just breathing, eyes closed to give all the other senses space as it started snowing. Her fingers cold against his skin as her hands slowly moved from his chest to his cheeks, the scent of her and a hint of her taste, and she was breathing fast. The shape of her a perfect fit in his arms, soft curves and delicate limbs, a slender waist. And even now, when he responded to her physical form, he tried to convince himself that he stood above lust, that this shape wasn’t what truly attracted him.  
But she was beautiful. Too precious, perfect from the depth of her soul to the surface of her skin, and he didn’t want to change a thing. Their breaths became a cloud of steam and he found her lips again. Softer this time, more restraint. The tip of his tongue brushing against her bottom lip, how she yet again opened her mouth to meet him. The snowflakes landing on his head and slowly melting, the contrast of temperatures, her arms finding their way around his neck and this time it was she who pulled him closer. All his senses on edge.  
Wait.  
No.  
He broke the kiss, panting. Oh, he would regret this. “We shouldn’t”, he murmured hoarsely and shook his head, “this isn’t right, not even here.”  
“What?” Dirhtara furrowed her eyebrows, but let him out of her embrace, still panting. “Not right? Tell me, what was wrong about this?”  
Solas took a step away from her. Couldn’t look at her while he regained his composure. “Nothing, it’s just… I need time to think.”  
Dirthara rubbed her face with her hands and grunted. “Well, to be absolutely truthful, so do I.”  
“You do?” Solas turned his head and studied her profile, cleared his throat. “I mean, of course you do.”  
“It’s time to wake up.” She brushed a loose tendril of blonde hair away from her face and locked it behind her ear. “I see you when I see you.”  
And just like that, she left. Again. 

Dirthara

Dirthara woke up with a jolt. She sat up so fast her head hit the ceiling of the tent. She didn’t reflect much over that; the rough fabric was after all soft enough to be ignored, and she had more troublesome matters on her mind.  
“Damn it! What have I done!” She slapped her forehead with a low growl. As if her relationship with Solas wasn’t complicated before… “Fenedhis!”  
Cassandra muttered something in her sleep, it almost sounded like a response, and Dirthara was about to jump out of her own skin from surprise.  
Please, don’t wake up! Please, don’t wake up! Please, don’t wake up…  
Cassandra turned around in her bed roll with a grunt before returning to her silent snoring.  
Dirthara sighed; relieved, even though it was about time to crawl out of the tent and start their day. She needed to figure this out, lest she would put everybody else in danger.  
What in the world had just happened? When did this take such a strange turn? Hadn’t both of them agreed - not with words and handshakes, but certainly in silence between the lines - that this kind of entanglement would be… well, difficult at least?  
But… It felt so right. She could still feel his stubble against her chin, his taste and his scent... his warm lips - the excitement just from thinking of it made her insides… sparkle? It felt sparkly. Fizzy, like she could begin to laugh any second for no reason at all.  
Oh, wait. She... She felt like herself! Dirthara almost screamed of joy, but restrained herself when she remembered that she wasn't alone. The darkness, her demons, the beast - it was still... She was still herself! And he kissed her back! Not just a peck either - that was… oh, how could she describe something like that? Bewildering, overwhelming and absolutely… unexpected! The reserved Solas was of course a man with temper, but she never thought… Composed and controlled, but only on the surface?  
And he tasted of herbal tea, carried that scent of soap, moss and leather, that tongue-tied stutter when he tried to regain his self-possession and how the tips of his ears grew red when he knew it was too late. Always so shy, hiding away behind his mind; talked, talked, talked...  
She realized that she was smiling, probably one of those corny inward smiles, and tried to collect herself.  
No.  
She shook her head, as if she needed to make her point clear to herself.  
This was not what she had in mind, not at all. She had planned to talk to him about that awkward wall between them, needed to tell him about how she felt to get that out of the way, and instead…  
Instead she kissed him! Why! That was the most idiotic thing she could have done, it would hardly make things easier!  
It was worth it.  
Yeah, it was so damn worth it.  
The tingling sensation in her lips would eventually fade away, her skin would forget soon enough. Not too soon, hopefully. Dirthara touched her lips.  
Before she remembered that she was covered in that disgusting sludge…  
“Ew…” The smell on her fingertips could knock a druffalo out cold. “I’d need a bath!”  
“Hmm?” Cassandra turned around in her bedroll and gave her a drowsy glance. “Did you say bath?”  
“Yeah, I could kill for a hot bath with lots of foam”, Dirthara beamed back, pretty sure it wasn’t the thought of a bath that made her feel so...alive. “and we will have to burn these clothes when we return home.”  
“I believe a sufficient launder will be enough”, Cassandra replied and sat up, stretched her arms over her head with a grunt, “but that bath sounded too good to be true.”  
Too good to be true. Yes, that was it. In reality, actions like these had consequences. This would, of course, too. A kiss was never just a kiss, it was a surface with a deep ocean beneath it.  
Lust. She had already decided that it was just that. It seemed centuries ago, that evening in Haven, but it was only months. She had known Solas for - what - half a year? Her Dalish upbringing told her that she knew too little about him to call whatever she felt anything else. Deeper feelings took time, lust was fast, heated, intense. Just like this.  
But that kiss… Held back, breaking free…  
“...with a little luck, that is.” Cassandra reached for her backpack.  
“Huh?” Dirthara realized Cassandra had been talking for a while when she recalled white noise in the background of all her thoughts.  
Cassandra gave her a strange glare. “The scouts. Last night they mentioned a ruined fort. That might be the place.”  
“If we can see them, they can see us.” Dithara decided to put all her pondering aside, grabbed her vest and coat instead. “The Avvar have a long history of falconeering.”  
“They also have a long history of blasphemous traditions”, Cassandra replied with a shudder. “They keep spirits as guardians, did you know that?”  
“Guardians, huh?” Something Solas had said the night before made a thought start to spin in her head as she started the frustrating business it was to button her vest and coat. By all things holy, if she had been a more practical woman, she would never have bought this thing. Every morning and every night the same thing. Her fingers stumbled over each other and she grunted. “Do you believe this Hand of Korth has spirits around him as well?”  
“Around him?” Cassandra chuckled. “No, no, no. It’s not like that. The Avvar takes the spirits into themselves, becomes abominations on purpose.”  
“Ah.” Dirthara crawled out of her bedroll, but couldn’t drop the subject. “So if…”  
Cassandra cursed and grabbed Dirthara’s arm. “Herald, I see what you’re thinking. It is not an answer.”  
“But Cole…” Dirhtara turned her head to look at the Seeker, but was interrupted.  
“Cole is a demon and I still think you should ask him to leave the Inquisition.” Cassandra’s furrowed eyebrows and frown was enough for Dirthara to know that this was not something she could discuss right now.  
Solas wouldn’t mind.  
She missed Solas.  
Well…  
At least she missed their conversations.  
The rest of him?  
She hadn’t decided yet.  
And this meant she would have to take matters into her own hands. She needed to befriend spirits; one way or another; to gain the knowledge she needed, but the only way she could do that - at least to her own recollection - was through her sleep in the fade. If the Avvar had other means to reach similar goals, she should try to find another way to defeat Hand of Korth rather than at the end of her staff. To figure this out she would need their help, because even her Dalish knowledge had gaps when it came to spirits.  
Of course, Solas would have been a preferable tutor in the matter, but he was far away and… well, she needed to stay away from him a little while longer to adjust to this new input to their already intricate entanglement.  
And to be honest, there was a familiarity to the thought. As if this wasn’t news to her. Somewhat derived, it felt, but at the same time a buried memory behind a veil through which she couldn’t see without scratching the surface.  
The feeling of disheartenment from the day before was swiftly swept away. She was supposed to be here, the reasons had just been of another nature. A goal made it easier - she could bear the hardship as long as there was something ahead in the distance.

Another pack of Avvar hunters, just within the megalith structure ahead. Two women and a man, standing guard around a fire. Dirthara knew they were aware of their presence, she didn’t dare to underestimate their abilities.  
“Wait here and stand ready”, she murmured to the rest of her party, took a deep breath and proceeded forward on her own. She wasn’t here to fight; as long as they didn’t attack, there wouldn’t be more blood spilt.  
Traditions. She had chosen to follow that path on their way here. The Avvar and the Dalish had a surprisingly similar culture, and this could be her advantage.  
Another deep breath, a few more steps.  
They knew she was there, no reason to sneak about.  
“The Great Bear sleeps at the foot of the mountain, but he whispered of trouble through his dreams”, Dirthara said with a loud voice as she slowly moved closer. She assumed the Great Bear of the Avvar held a similar reputation as Dirthamen as a keeper of Secrets, but she could of course be wrong.  
The three people around the fire turned around, seemingly surprised by her appearance but ready with their weapons drawn.  
“You are the one they call the Herald.” It was the man who finally spoke. He looked confused, probably surprised by her appearance. They were after all out here waiting for her and her party, he couldn’t be surprised by her presence.  
“I am the one they call the Herald, that is true.” Dirthara stopped in the shadows from one of the megalith arches and waited for her breath to find a calmer pace. Her heart was pounding hard in her chest and to her surprise she recognized a sensation of rush, similar to that during the infiltration of Redcliffe Castle. Not overwhelming, but exciting, as if life became more genuine through her faith in luck. This was a gamble, and her chances weren’t favoured. She hardly knew anything about the Avvar, only what scribbles she had found in books.  
Hopefully her tongue would handle the rest.  
“Hand of Korth challenged you under the sign of Korth the Mountain-Father.” This time it was one of the women who spoke. The man was still studying her, rather curiously it seemed.  
Dirthara snickered. Hopefully she managed to seem confident even though the only thing she had to save this moment was her words. “Hand of Korth has everything against him”, Dirthara pointed out and walked out of the shadows from the arch. “He dishonored the Father of the Skies with his challenge and I am here to tell him before it’s too late.”  
The three people looked at each other over the fire. Doubt. Good, that was enough to change their path. Hopefully enough to give her mission meaning too.  
“You are lying.” The woman who had spoken before turned her focus back to Dirthara and lifted her chin. “Hand of Korth is honorable, therefore his given name.”  
Lying, huh?” Dirthara took a few more steps forward, enough to feel the warmth from their fire. “The birds are flying in unusual patterns this morning, and the winds have changed.”  
The last part was actually a lie, but hopefully they wouldn’t notice.  
“Spirits guide me, this elf talks like a snake.” The last woman, the one who had stayed silent until now, lifted her bow and grabbed an arrow from the quiver on her back. “Let’s end her life before she slithers into our minds.”


	16. Spirits

Solas

It wasn’t real. It didn’t count. He didn’t need to overthink this, Solas argued as he left the rotunda that morning - debating with himself over unimportant things was not his priority. This matter had no logic to it, since it didn’t fit into his calculations. An imaginary number.  
The tavern. Varric had asked to meet him in the tavern, wanted to discuss something. The dwarf had looked concerned, that was unusual and therefore more pressing.  
But his calculations - they couldn’t be that wrong. He must have missed a variable, a linear subspace that connected…  
No, that couldn’t be right. That meant…  
Too confusing. He had to be sure though, would have to ask Dirthara about her values before he could be sure. He couldn’t be certain about some of his own variables until then.  
He walked outside, down the stairs and across the courtyard, but was too distracted by his thoughts to notice Cole coming up beside him. Didn’t see him until he was about to walk inside at Herald’s Rest.  
“Oh! Good morning, Cole.” Solas held the door open and invited the boy inside with a gesture. “Please, join me and Varric for breakfast.”  
“Blueberry muffins, strong tea. Need to wake up, need to see”, Cole muttered as he passed Solas through the door, gaze pinned to the floor and with his hands in his pockets. “Yes, I’ll join you. I haven’t had blueberry muffins before.”  
“I think you will like it”, Solas replied with a wry smile. Not really concerned about the fact that the boy just had read his mind - it was a way to converse as well as any. He remembered that feeling though, the one Cole was referring to - it was long ago but he would never forget those first sensations of taste.

Varric sat by one of the tables close to the bar. Apparently too wrought-up to have the decency to be hung-over or even drunk. His feet were restlessly stepping around under his chair, his fingers drumming on the surface of the table and his eyes kept searching through the room as if he was expecting an assassin to attack him; any second and out of nowhere. When Solas arrived, his nervous facial expression brightened up, but when he saw Cole that smile became stale.  
“Ah. There you are! ...Both of you. Eh… Good, good, good.”  
Solas sat down in the chair on the other side of the table with a suspicious feeling that the dwarf had more than ‘something I need to share’ on his mind. He gave Cole a quick glance, but because of the brim of the boy’s hat he couldn’t see what he was thinking. Cole silently pulled out the chair beside him.  
“Blueberry muffins and strong tea, am I right, Cole?” Solas wondered as he made a discreet sign to the serving girl who just passed them on her way towards the kitchen with her hands full of empty glasses and plates.  
“You wanted to save him, he’s already been through so much”, Cole murmured and nodded.  
Varric’s face turned pale and his hands stopped drumming. “Please, stop doing that, Cole.”  
“But… You are quiet inside, you pull me more to here”, Cole protested with a disappointed tone in his voice, “You make me a person.”  
Solas wasn’t sure he liked that thought. Sure, it was possible - Cole was real, Dirthara was real, Solas was… - but the point of it all, was that really something worth striving for?  
Apparently Cole’s words had another effect on Varric. The color on the dwarf’s face returned and his feet stopped dancing under the table. “Eh, you’re alright, kid.”  
Cole smiled. “You couldn’t have done more. Staying isn’t what hawks do.”  
Solas furrowed his eyebrows. “Hawke is here.”  
Varric sighed and nodded. “Seeker will be furious.”  
“Faith a flame”, Cole murmured and nodded, “her stomach full of mantras, she burns like a beacon.”  
Solas agreed. Faith, Purpose and Command were often very similar - temperamental and with a goal. “She has very high thoughts of him. From my understanding, she thinks…”  
Solas paused as their breakfast arrived, and their table became a bubble of intense silence and courteous nods, smiles and ‘thank you’s as the serving girl placed the basket of blueberry muffins and a large kettle of tea on their table.  
Tea. It would make his head work faster and maybe he would see things clearer.  
“A cloud of cinnamon, a breath of spring, the lilies in the valley present color to life.” Cole reached for a muffin. “A kiss is always a kiss, Solas.”  
“A kiss?” Varric turned his head and stared at Solas. “Is this what I think it is?”  
Solas grunted. “No it isn’t.” Damn it. He grabbed the tea kettle and poured himself a large cup of the steaming hot brew. “It was just a dream.”  
“Hrmph.” Varric looked disappointed and grabbed one of the empty teacups by the ear.  
“The Fade is as real to you and me as it is to her”, Cole pointed out and pinched a piece off the muffin with a scrutinous frown. “We are real, are we not?”  
“Chuckles, you dog!” You kissed her in the Fade!” Varric was already searching for his notebook in the pockets of his vest with one of those wide wolfish grins reaching from ear to ear. “I knew it! I knew you would give in for the…”  
“Urges.” Solas ended his sentence with a low growl. Tea wouldn’t help him out of this mess, that was obvious to him now. “Varric, we’re not discussing this. You had a problem and that problem is related to Hawke being in Skyhold, I presume.”  
The dwarf didn’t seem to listen. He had found his notebook and was turning the pages back and forth. Scribbles. Scribbles everywhere, and the occasional rough illustration. Somewhere in the middle of it all he found a graph and a table. “Ah! Here it is!”  
“Silver and gold, running through like water. Some droplets will always stay.” Cole put the piece of muffin in his mouth and chewed. “You were right, Solas. I like blueberry muffins.”  
“That’s right kid, that’s absolutely right”, Varric murmured as he read through the table with a stubby finger showing his eyes direction. “About… six months, right? Ah! Here it is! Seeker Pentaghast, you are a... slightly richer woman. And so am I. Well, not a woman, but… eh, you get it.”  
“You are not a woman. Yes, I can see that.” Cole had another bite from his muffin, this time with a concerning amount of ferocity in his action. Still chewing, he looked up with a bothered expression. The crumbs in his mouth muffled his speech when he gave voice to his thoughts. “What makes a woman a woman?”  
“That is hardly a conversation for this table, Cole”, Solas pointed out, before he sighed and added: “Or any table, for that matter.”  
“You don’t have to take everything so literally, Chuckles. A woman is more than biology.” Varric looked up from his graphs and started his next frantic search through his pockets. He seemed to have found what he was searching for when the shortest and most pointless pencil in Thedas found its way into his hand. “Cole, my boy; a woman is the reason for your strives to become a better person. Because of the woman, you want to be creative to make her stay, you want to be rich to offer her a pleasant life, you want to be strong to protect her, you want to be everything she wants you to be.”  
“And that is why you lie.” Cole nodded slowly.  
“You’re catching up fast, kid.” Varric grinned and leaned down into his notebook again.  
Solas swallowed a long tirade of curses. “You shouldn’t lie, Cole.”  
“Everybody lies”, Varric muttered absentmindedly. “It is how you lie that makes the difference.”  
“Some, mostly to themselves.” Cole put the rest of his muffin in his mouth, his cheeks stuffed like those of a hamster’s as he tried to chew and swallow.  
“To save others from harm, that might be a wiser choice.” Solas lifted his teacup and drank. The bitter taste filled his mouth and made him regret ordering it in the first place. “Again, that is not the reason for this breakfast meeting. Varric, you wanted to discuss your friend. I am here, and we have been talking about everything except that.”  
Varric jotted down a few words in the margin of his graph before he put the pencil and the notebook away. “You are absolutely right. Doesn’t make you fun though, Chuckles, you should really take a look at your priorities.”  
"Old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real”, Cole murmured and reached for another muffin. “This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change."  
“I know that Cole, and that is why I’m trying to help.” Solas was beginning to understand Varric’s restless behaviour. Even though he was fully material, the haste of the shemlens wasn’t quick enough. Not so strange that he disappeared into his own worlds, where everything happened all at once. “Hawke. He is here, and from what I understand, Cassandra would be furious if she knew. Why?”  
“Ah. To the point then.” Varric leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. “I was her prisoner, just like you, remember?”  
Solas nodded. “Her disturbing bumps in the road.”  
Varric snorted. “Very well put. Her point for keeping me was… Well, Seeker and Red wanted to start the Inquisition long before the Conclave. By the orders from Divine Justinia, actually. They were looking for the reasons for the mage uproar. Cassandra believed Hawke knew more about it than he wanted to show, and Red is still looking for the Hero of Ferelden. According to her sources, he disappeared into a mirror together with some hedge mage and haven’t been seen since.”  
Solas flinched. “A mirror?” An Eluvian - it had to be. Functional? Where? And this hedge mage, who apparently had found a key to it. Who could that be?  
“Yes, well, I know it sounds strange, but…” Varric paused and looked at Solas. “Our heroes wants to be forgotten, that is why they disappear, Chuckles. When Red couldn’t find the Warden, Seeker decided to look for Hawke. When she couldn’t find him, she captured me instead, with the hope that I could lead her to him. She’s a rough interrogator, that woman.”  
And in that moment it all stood clear. “They needed a hero to be the face of the Inquisition”, Solas murmured. “They still need someone to be that surface.”  
“Exactly.” Varric nodded. “Hawke is here, because he believes it is his duty, but to be honest I know he’d prefer to be left alone. When he heard about Corypheus’ attack on Haven, he came here as fast as he could, that doesn’t mean he wish to be the head of an Inquisition.”  
“His duty.” Solas paused and shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why would he think this was up to him?”  
“A hawk soars over lands with piercing eyes, dives down with speed at every target”, Cole clarified, “especially at what’s already wounded.”  
Varric nodded again. “Very true, kid. He - we - killed Corypheus once, but apparently we didn’t kill him good enough.”  
“Ah.” Solas tried to hide his surprise by drinking from that horrible tea again. It had gone cold, and for some reason it tasted even worse. Corypheus couldn’t be killed by normal means. He must draw power from the orb, or from the dragon. Maybe both. Solas put the cup down and hissed. “Well, there’s only one solution, as far as I can see. Cassandra and Leliana need to find another potential Inquisitor, and fast. Hawke has to stay hidden until this is solved, or he will have to lead whether he wants it or not.”  
“I’ve said it before, and I say it again: we already have a leader.” Varric crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s a shame that she doesn’t get credit for her work.”  
“Dirthara doesn’t want that position either”, Solas pointed out. “I agree that she is perfect for that role, but she doesn’t want it.”  
“But it is her purpose!” Cole lifted his chin and looked almost desperate. “Not yet a desire, never make it a desire Solas.”  
Solas sighed and scratched his neck. Cole was right. Damn it, Dirthara wouldn’t like this, but in the end this would be the better solution. “Varric, you make sure Hawke stays away until Dirthara returns. I... will talk to the others and see what I can do.”

Dirthara

Well, shit. This wasn’t good. An Avvar archer pointing an arrow at her - definitely not good. Dirthara wasn’t fast enough to take her staff out if needed, so what was left?  
Slither out of it, of course. A slim chance, but at least a chance.   
“End my life? How very honorable of you.” Dirthara could feel the cold sweat run down her back as the woman nocked her bow and aimed, but she hid her fear behind a snicker. “Hand of Korth must be very pleased to have his challenge lifted. The spirits wouldn’t approve. I wish you the best of luck, whatever your choice may be.” She leaned against the megalith pillar just beside her and crossed her arms over her chest; a pose she hoped would make her look relaxed while she at the same time kept her hands from shaking. Just a stretch over her shoulder, and she would have her staff ready, and further back along the path, hidden in the shadows, Sera was waiting with her arrows.   
And she had potions.   
She would survive, it was just physical pain.   
Spirits. It was worth it.  
Solas wouldn’t approve. This was a chance, and he trusted logic. He would probably have showed her a graph that would give her a headache and say something like ‘you have a 0,5 percent chance of surviving, and the parallel sub-something-something with interstellar gravity shows that this is a risk you shouldn’t take’, and Dirthara would still think that those 0,5 percent was a chance and they would have a friendly conversation about how one’s attitude to optimism would be beneficial or not.  
No, who was she kidding; he would be furious, but collected.  
Maybe not even collected.  
Damn it, if he heard of this, he would be furious in retrospect.  
If she survived.  
Eh, he would be furious if she died too.  
And while those thoughts ran through her head, the woman by the fire let the arrow fly. It hit Dirthara in the shoulder, and for a moment it felt like time stood still. The force from the blow was the immediate pain and it made her stumble backwards, then came the burning sensation, as if every nerve in her left arm was being shredded to pieces. Dirthara growled and bit her jaws tightly together, hoped that Sera kept her temper. It was a warning shot most likely; an Avvar hunter wouldn’t miss a still target only feet away.  
Dirthara returned to her pose, panting from keeping her breath steady. Tried to be still to avoid the arrow in her shoulder to cause more pain. But her senses were sharpened, a reflex caused by physical stress. Scents of wet smoke from the moldy firewood, her vision sharper through the mist and a taste of copper. Yes, adrenaline and pain.  
A strange sound further out in the bog made her jump from surprise; a splash followed by a reverberating cackle. The man by the fire flinched and spun around. The woman with the bow turned her head back and forth with her eyes wide open, as if she was trying to find something far off in the mist. Their third party member looked like she was about to… well, luckily, she wore brown pants.  
“What was that?” the archer whispered as she lifted her bow again.  
“Another cut in the sky”, the man replied, even though he didn’t seem too confident.  
Dirthara, on the other hand, was grinning. The adrenaline rushing through her veins offered more than heightened senses - a stronger focus and a brighter connection to the fade was a bonus. If she could feel a fade rift from the distance before, she could have tasted it in this state. No, that was not the sound of a rift opening. This was another chance, and from the nature of it, she believed Sera was behind it.  
Then came the bees, which only proved what Dirthara already suspected. She sent a thought of gratitude to Sera for her creativity when the three people in front of her started to skip around in a desperate dance to avoid the angered insects.  
“Ah, the spirits work in mysterious ways”, Dirthara said with a loud voice - she couldn’t quite hide how amused she was - while she took a step backwards to stay out of the furious swarm. It wasn’t easy though to appear nonchalant with an arrow sticking out of her just above the collarbone, but she tried to seem as convincing as possible. “You said something about Honor? Very easily corrupted into Deceit. And from the looks of your status, I would say you are hanging on by a very thin thread of Hope. Whom incidentally becomes Fear when deceived.”   
If this was Sera’s idea of fun, Dirthara should have joined her on one of her sprees of practical jokes long ago.  
The man turned around and stared at her with horror. “Do something!”  
Dirthara shook her head and tried to keep a straight face. “How could I? These are your demons, not mine.”  
“You snake!” The woman with the bow was waving desperately with her arms, and her curses became nothing but comical.  
“What a lovely sobriquet, I should add it to my other titles.” Dirthara didn’t dare to shake her head; it might hurt; but she sighed and removed some of the rotting brain that had splattered over her cuticles. “Dirthara Lavellan, Snake-Herald of Andraste, next in line to mantle the position of Keeper. Oh, and did I mention Snake? I think I did.”  
The absurdity of the situation made her chuckle. Well, at least Varric would be proud of her. This was turning into disability humour on so many levels. She couldn’t move her arm, and they were… well, imbeciles would be frank but very accurate from the looks of it. And she who had thought they knew nature from living close to it. This display put some perspective to her earlier fears though. They were new to the area and didn’t know the bogs as well as she had anticipated.   
“She’s an Augur!” the panicked woman with the brown pants exclaimed, “this is her doing!”  
“Well, a sensible observation, but I haven’t done anything per se”, Dirthara replied. This was getting embarrassing. Not for her, but for them. She would have to end this. “Put some of those wet branches on the fire and stand absolutely still. They will go away.”

“That was a stupid move, Herald.” Cassandra pushed the arrow out through the exit wound in Dirthara’s shoulder and yanked it out with a grunt. The forceful action caused Dirthara to scream.  
“Damn it, Cas! Take it easy!” she growled, “We managed to avoid unnecessary bloodshed on both sides!”  
“Unnecessary bloodshed”, Cassandra repeated with a silly voice and snorted, “you’re bleeding, are you not? What difference does your blood make, when the side you should be fighting against is a horde of abominations?” She looked over her shoulder towards the Avvars who had formed a camp of their own within the Inquisition’s site. The man and the female archer sat, huddled around a smaller fire, their faces red and swollen from bee stings. The third member of their party had left with a message to Hand. If he wanted a challenge, it would be according to the rules of the Lady of the Sky.


	17. ...and how to befriend them

Solas

He was so tired. Not enough for his eyes to close while he still was standing on his feet, but enough for him to feel drowsy. Solas dropped the brush in the bucket of red paint with a sigh, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Finished. Finally finished. He had to be fast - only had as long as the lime-plaster stayed wet to apply the colours, and it never looked good if he paused where there wasn’t a natural border. Earlier that evening it had been to keep his hands occupied while thinking, but when evening turned into night, then was followed by early morning, it was just to stay awake. For the last hour it had begun to be difficult to concentrate; his back was hurting and his hand not as steady as he wanted it to be.  
And sure, he would love to go to sleep; follow the dreams where they took him; but he didn’t dare and it disturbed him. He didn’t dare, because he knew he couldn’t stay away from her, and it disturbed him because the fade was where he felt most like himself. If he couldn’t trust himself where he found peace, how could he then be sure about his actions here where he found it harder to steer them?   
Time to think, hmm? Easier said than done. Varric’s little confession had given him more to ponder than he needed, and it felt like all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough. The last eluvian, the one he hadn’t located yet; functional. Corypheus, still alive - obviously - despite the fact that he’d been killed before. Dirthara’s wish to leave the Inquisition, when this was where she needed to be.  
At least according to Cole. Solas had his own reasons to keep her here, and they polluted his mind. It made him feel guilty, made it difficult for him to see if he was being egoistic or really aiming for a greater good.  
That was why he had turned to Mother Giselle. He didn’t want to make this choice, didn’t want to be the person behind it, and this act made him feel… Deceitful would be a strong word, but at the same time… To walk behind Dirthara’s back and go against her wishes was certainly not honest, but he was wise enough to know that he wasn’t trusted with the strings that he had to pull to make a difference fast. He couldn’t reason with her either; when it came to this matter, that was a fact.  
Well, maybe he could with time convince Dirthara to consider… But time was something they didn’t have.  
It wasn’t easier, when he wasn’t completely sure his intentions were honest either. Mother Giselle shared Cole’s perspective, but with faith as a reason. That was at least truthful, and she really believed Dirthara would make a difference. Solas? He trusted her as a leader when it came to tactical decisions in the field, she put a lot of thought into her choices, but she was too young and to inexperienced to shoulder an entire Inquisition. The politics, the history, the assumed future - she knew nothing of it and could only make assumptions based on her sheltered life in a nomadic clan who did what they could to divide themselves from the rest of the world. She had theoretical knowledge, he had to give her that, but what difference did an old tome make in a factual and ever changing world?  
And then there was religion.  
With Dirthara’s idealistic view on things and how they should be based on facts, there wasn’t much room for faith. Just like she studied every problem from several perspectives to find the most beneficial solution, she questioned everything she couldn’t prove. To be offered a title based on something she couldn’t grasp would be like winning first prize in a competition she hadn’t entered - and not only gain the benefits, but the responsibilities too.   
“But Dirthara would hardly be considered a religious person”, Solas had protested, since Mother Giselle’s words made him feel even more uncomfortable.  
“The people believe in her and that is what matters”, Mother Giselle had pointed out, and by that Solas would have to leave it all in her hands.  
It didn’t matter. He still felt guilty. Especially since she never left his mind. While painting, his thoughts always returned to Dirthara, that kiss and how it felt to hold her close.  
To take away his guilt, he tried to find a reason for those returning images and sensations instead.   
Not in himself; according to his calculations he only had one answer within himself, and it wasn’t good enough. It didn’t fit his plans.   
The problem had to root in her, and that meant that he had missed yet another variable.  
And he knew he wouldn’t be able to look her straight in the eyes until… Maybe not afterwards either, to be honest. She didn’t want that title, and now she wouldn’t have a choice.  
But why? His guilt… There really was no reason for it. Her feelings were hardly important when so much was at stake.  
But Dirthara wasn’t as gullible as the rest, had a way of seeing things. Maybe he should have trusted her enough to let her go?  
No. This was not about trust. This was about his own confusion. He wanted her to stay, as did everybody else, and he took matters into his own hands even though he shouldn’t.  
The question ‘why’ kept emerging to the surface over and over again, and he returned to his calculations hoping to find the answers, but when it came to why he wanted her to stay, he didn’t know.   
She must have changed somehow, when she touched the orb. She was too much like him, her ...spirit too aligned with his own. Like a reflection, only faded, as if she was a long lost memory. Her mind and soul too old and wise for that frail young body. Old wisdom, something from another time. A dusty old tome with strange words and letters, discarded when the new translated and improved edition reached the shelves. The world had changed, and she didn’t know it. Couldn’t feel it.  
Because she wasn’t as strong. Weaker by birth, her anatomy far from capable to handle that quantity of magic.  
But her focus was steady and her connection with the fade...   
It wasn’t enough. Dirthara’s influence might have given him new perspectives, but she wasn’t a powerful mage.  
Or maybe it was just him, comparing her to what he remembered. In his own powerless state, she might be his equal.  
Maybe she had influenced him after all? Her spirit - it was in her nature.  
He desperately needed it to be so, because if not, it couldn’t be coincidence.  
But why now? His time was long lost, why? Everything was at its end!  
Solas grunted.  
This was getting out of hand.   
He needed his sleep to be able to think straight. If this had been a test, she would be the temptation he needed to fight, and he wouldn’t become stronger from avoiding her.  
And he wouldn’t find answers to some of his questions without talking to her either.  
But not tonight.  
If he returned to the oldest memories, hidden deep within the fade, he might not hear her. Her colors wouldn’t pour into his mind as easily. It would give him the rest he needed, and hopefully he could get some answers about the newly surfaced eluvian.  
Solas dropped down in his couch with a sigh and wrapped the green and brown plaid around his shoulders. Eyes clipping in the dim light from the candle on his table, a long, hissing flame at the end of a wick on a short stump of wax.   
Lilies of the valley; green fields and pale blue skies in the still dewy morning; fresh air, still moist after a rainy night and the dewy grass a paler silvery hue. Somewhere between wake and slumber, in the middle of the lightness of a flight through a breeze in the rising sun he noticed that the plaid still wore her scent. She colored his dream, and before he even heard her beat, he knew in what direction he was going.  
Autumn forests, burning in red and yellow; the rising sun over the mists; a fire in the middle of a circle of large tents, the aravels and hallas like little dots of activity outside. Children playing under the trees, a group of hunters leaving the circle around the fire with knapsacks, bows and arrows hanging from their shoulders.  
It was the ambiance rather than the vision that startled him. He never met this side of the Dalish elves. A feeling of being welcome, invited into an embrace of care where everyone was your family. Hostility was forgotten, only the stories around the campfire and a deep connection to… something. Something bigger, the nature surrounding them.  
“What is it with the fall you like, lethallan? It is cold and wet, it doesn’t speak with warmth in mind, now does it?” Solas murmured as he followed the sound of her towards one of the larger trees just outside the camp.  
“The scents of earth is stronger and the colors makes me think of warmth and fire.” Dirthara’s voice was slightly distant, as if her mind was wandering, but when he heard her speak it was easier to find her.   
Up, she was somewhere above him. He tilted his head and followed the lines in the bark of the tree trunk with his eyes until he saw one of her feet between the shivering leaves. Bare, her toes slightly redder than the rest of her pale limbs. She sat there, flown up on one of the lower branches as if she just had landed there, one of her legs dangling under her while she rested her chin against the other knee. Yes, of course. The cool mornings in the Autumn made people stay together, wait a little longer by the fire. She was a social creature, wanted to belong. Something made her seem… alone.  
“You have a reason to feel sad?” Solas asked. As if he’d stung himself on a thorn, he looked away, studied the people gathered around the large fire in the camp while he tried to gather himself.   
Sad. Guilt growing stronger in the morning light as if it was a planted seed. Dirthara continued to have this strange effect on him. He would find it difficult to keep on working by her side as if nothing had happened.  
“No, I’m not sad, just…” Dirthara sighed. “Solas have you read about the Avvar and their culture?”  
Read about them? Solas chuckled. “They were a tribe of warriors, just like the Chasind and the Clayne; as people they were known as Alamarri.”  
Dirthara snorted. “I take that as a yes.” Solas didn’t see her heave herself out of the tree, just noticed when she landed with the grace of a cat on the ground beside him. “About their culture; can you tell me of their power?”  
“Power?” Solas repeated the word as he turned his head to look at her. This sudden curiosity for the last shards of a people lost to history combined with her choice of words made him feel slightly bothered.  
“I fought a man named Hand today”, Dirthara murmured and looked down at her bare feet. Black eyelashes resting against sun kissed but pale cheeks, toes digging down into the molding leaves under her feet. “My hand was forced by Hand”, she added with a nervous giggle as her feet began to kick around the fallen leaves. “I did not like it.”  
Ah. The humanization of the enemy. As far as Solas knew, she had only fought what couldn’t be solved or saved, but since they last had spoken…  
If one would call that speaking… The mere thought of her lips against his…

Dirthara

A strong memory, awoken by the sense of kinship between the Avvars in the camp. They were ashamed for Hand’s actions, but still connected with a bond stronger than right and wrong. Sorrow and pain for the loss of a friend, a leader and a brother, but not the lust for revenge. Dirthara knew she would have to pay the price later, that this was not the end. She was willing to pay; future losses was not her reason for remorse.   
If she had chosen another route, taken the longer path through the mountains to talk to the Avvar before going here… If she had known, she would have. Hand was just a boy in mind, but stood several feet taller than herself, a chest like an oxe and arms like tree trunks. Measured in years he was a man, about her own age, and his experiences from life pretty similar. The son of a chieftain but without his clan; their paths were parallel lines drawn through history. Where she wanted to understand his walk, he wanted to conquer her, crush her under his hand. For what reason? To make a statement? He never had to prove his strength, it was obvious. Especially when she stood in front of him, this tower. She never felt smaller.  
And he could fight. Surprisingly fast for his size, viciously tactical and with a vision of their ground as if he knew her moves before she made them. She thought she had met his likes before, but this was different. This was not the wits, the stamina or the knowledge of one man. There was something else burning behind those eyes. Or, if Cassandra was right: someone.  
But if she had taken the longer route through the mountains…  
She would have known what to expect, would have found a way to reason with him.  
And his hair was red, just like the Autumn leaves.  
A feeling of emptiness when she realized just how much she had lost that fatal day when she left for the Conclave together with Farras. Did they think of her at all back home? She missed them so much it had begun to hurt.  
And in her way towards her home, Corypheus was leaving a shadow. She had seen what the future would become, knew what would happen if she turned her back and left.   
Results. Fast. No matter the costs. She needed to understand the spirits; to be able to run away from the fear of losing more.

Determined when she fell asleep, but lurking in the back of her head was the Autumn forests, the warmth from laughing in the company of family, the safety in her sleep knowing that the archers were standing guard around the camp beside the statues of Fen’harel. She wanted to be naïve again, believe in the lies to forget about the monsters hiding where she couldn’t see them. Threw her shoes away, climbed a tree just like she used to, but something had changed. As she studied the familiar faces around the campfire, she realized that everything she had seen through a nostalgic shimmer had grown torn and fractured. A life where she was welcome, where a warm embrace would bring her closer to her roots, but at the same time keep her away from everything beyond. Every life in front of her running faster and faster in a circle, eyes blinded from speed, instead of moving forward.  
And then she heard him. Something with his beat was different, as if he had decided to just follow it. Better than to drown.  
“What is it with the fall you like, lethallan?” A curious observation rather than a question. Her feet were cold. She didn’t listen, not completely. The people around the fire was familiar, but at the same time so distant. They never knew her. A conversation where she wasn’t fully focused passed, and from another point of view this was good. It kept her collected, made it easier to think of every tree, every bird, how the fire moved - all to keep the dream in her flow. She told him about Hand, a confession even though she left most of it out. She never mentioned how young he was, never said anything about how close she had been to death - she knew how he would react.  
Solas cleared his throat. “The Avvar always were the strongest warriors among the tribes, your fight must be something sorely forgotten.” Forced back into his beat, Inward focus making him sound like he was talking to himself.   
Dirthara looked up from her feet, her toes forgot to play around with the leaves, a layer of freshly fallen on top of a soft carpet of brown and dry. “The Wintersong had told me of The Test of the Lady”, she pointed out with a frown. She didn’t want Solas to think that this fight had been her only option. “I tried to save him.”  
And why had that been so important? She had killed templars and seekers - wouldn’t it have been better to try to convince them of her cause too? They had families, just like herself. What was it that changed her perspective?  
The similarities, and how traditions could fool an entire people to follow blindly in a leash. Just like religion. Templars and seekers followed orders, had made active choices to become what they were. If they didn’t like it, they had a free will to turn their backs and leave. Religion and traditions? Not as easily washed away. The Avvar was too much like her own tribe, which obviously meant both weaknesses and strengths. Lavellan was a lost cause, too deeply rooted in the Dalish mud, digging deeper to find a lost history. The Avvar never lost their past, it just adapted as it does with time.  
Solas studied her face, scrutinously as if he thought there was a deeper meaning to her words, soon followed by a quick smile. “Their strength comes from the spirit world, not magic but not far from it. It’s ancient and most people have forgotten.”  
Ah. So, was this what Solas had been talking about when he had told her to befriend a spirit?   
“Abominations is was Seeker calls them, is there truth in this or simply...” Dirthara didn’t know how to end the sentence and just made a gesture with her hands. Lies? Preconceptions? Based on facts: what was an abomination anyway?   
“Andraste was Avvar.” Dirthara added instead, and as she met his gaze she realized that his eyes changed color as they spoke. Maybe it was the light; aquamarine turned a paler shade of purple, but for a short moment there was a strange vibration in the vision around them. Her concentration fading. Solas. Every layer of him a new secret.   
No. Think of trees, the wind playing in the leaves, the mists in the early morning sun, the bluish green of the grass under a thin veil of dew. Children playing, the homely blather from the hallas around the aravels. She took a deep breath and looked away. “If the traditions of the people are old, she must have followed the same path too. Why would the Chantry call it an abomination?”  
A pause. Dirthara returned to dig her toes into the molding dry leaves, the soft dirt under her bare feet giving her something substantial to cling on to.  
Solas sighed. “Andraste was Avvar, that’s true, and spirits always watched their tribe. Abominations… No, I wouldn’t say so. Their mages invite spirits, sure, but only for a time in life to guide them through the dangers using magic; the warriors invoke their will to help through strifes of every kind, just like Seeker asks for strength from the Maker.”  
Dirthara snickered. “I almost told her that before, I realized soon enough that I’d be punished.” Faith. A strong spirit by Cassandra’s side; maybe all of them were chosen one way or another by someone beyond the veil?   
Solas burst out into laughter. The children stopped playing under the trees for a short moment, looking at them with curiosity.   
“The Seeker wouldn’t like that comparison, I am sure of that. It isn’t far away from truth though, vehn…” Solas stopped talking abruptly and cleared his throat. His beat cut off, she noticed and when she realized what he had been about to call her, the world around her fluttered. The children under the trees following a strange loop where they lifted their heads from their games over and over again as they looked at Dirthara and Solas, the flames in the fire in the middle of the camp following the same pattern over and over again.  
Too strong and too soon. He knew it too, didn’t want to use that word. She shouldn’t delve deeper into it.  
Concentrate.  
The breeze in the trees, the birds singing as the sun rose over the treetops, and the children returned to their games as the last hunters left camp. And the tips of Solas’ ears grew red.   
“The truth?” Dirthara returned to his message rather than his words, and couldn’t hide the fact that she was disturbed by the effect he had on her. Sounded a bit more annoyed than she had planned, but this was her dream and she had to keep her focus steady. “I want to understand; don’t talk in riddles, Solas, it’s annoying.”  
A sigh, and his shoulders fell back into place. “The Seeker’s power comes from Faith, her mind was touched and Faith will always follow by her side through pain and pleasure. But as you know, a spirit can take demon form when taken out of purpose, and Faith is very similar to Purpose.” Solas emphasized the word ‘Purpose’ and looked at Dirthara.  
Purpose? What in the world was he talking about… She shook her head and furrowed her eyebrows. “They’re touched by Faith? Does that change all their values or just give them faith in matters?”  
A faint smile, maybe a hint of disappointment. Solas gave her an honest answer though: “As long as there is faith the seekers find a value in their goals, but when the faith is failing there’s ...desire.”  
Desire. A wish to reach forward without faith in the outcome. Cassandra must have given up many times and still not turned into a ruthless leader without a goal. Faith was strong in her. Or maybe she was strong enough to fight her demons.  
“So how does one befriend a spirit? These traditions haven’t been forgotten”, Dirthara murmured and scratched her arm.  
“Traditions?” Solas grunted. He had said that single word with so much sarcasm it made Dirthara turn her head and look at him. He was clearly frustrated, but continued anyway:  
“Spirits are like us. How did you learn to know Varric and ...Dorian?”  
“I didn’t have much of a choice”, Dirthara pointed out with a frown. Well, at least when it came to Varric. “I was a prisoner like you, have you forgotten?” Of course he would say something like that. To him it was easy, the fade a part of him. And of course he would make that face the very moment he mentioned Dorian. The Tevinter mages had traditions too, and Solas didn’t like them.  
“You choose your friends through actions made, it is not something forced upon you. Dorian and Varric both adore you.” Solas shuddered once more as he mentioned Dorian. “The spirits study you from here, with curiosity and awe. You cause much more than flutter on the surface.”  
“What?” The image around them stopped moving for a short moment, everything became static as Dirthara paused to understand the full meaning of what Solas just had said.  
Trees, mist, birds, children, fire, breeze, warmth, welcome, love.  
A man returned from the forest with his knapsack full of herbs. He was old; back weighed down by time, eyes dim, limbs wiry and hands twig like with swollen joints. Sulevin, the old pharmacist who’d left their world five winters ago - she would never forget how his face lit up when he found a certain flower in the field or how carefully he picked up his alembic from his chest every day.  
Dirthara took a deep breath. “The spirits see me?”  
Solas sighed and made a wide gesture with his hands. “Look around you, Dirthara. This is not shaped out of your memories alone. The spirits reenact the scene.” He was clearly frustrated now, didn’t even keep his beat. “Every tree, every bird, every straw of grass…”  
Dirthara’s eyes widened. Solas had dreamt of Haven… “Every snowflake?”  
A cold wind caught the leaves around her feet and made them dance, as if someone wanted her to see what really hid behind the scene.  
“Yes, every snowflake.” The tips of his ears grew red again, but his voice was calmer.  
“But…” Dirthara’s gaze followed the leaves as they swirled away towards the center of the camp and for a moment she almost saw the wind carrying them. “How do I ask them for help?”  
“Just like in your dreams”, Solas replied. “They lack imagination - be a visionary and they’ll mirror your visions.”


	18. Mirrors

Solas

“Maker’s beard!” Cullen spun around by his table and glared towards the mason apprentice who had stopped at the top of the stairs with his bucket of mortar in one hand and the other hand covering his mouth. An absolutely terrified expression; eyes wide open, cheeks pale - with reason, Cullen looked like he could strangle him. “Now there’s mortar everywhere! Use your head or lose it!”  
“Go, go, go. Hurry up, I’ll handle this”, Solas murmured as he passed the boy and tapped him on the shoulder. How old could he be? Twelve? He skulked away, mortified, followed by more of Cullen’s curses.   
“Cullen, you’re a templar, are you not?” Solas walked slowly down the stairs towards the upset man. Mortar. There was mortar everywhere. Fascinating that the boy could have anything left at all in his bucket.  
“I have left the order, why?” Cullen grunted back as he wiped the map on his table clean, shook some of the mortar off his gloved hands. The mortar landed with a wet splat by his feet on the ground.  
“I take it self-control is one of your greater virtues then.” Not a very smooth way to go, but whatever Cullen was going through he was smearing his former order by lashing out at people like this. “I came to tell you that the tower has been furnished for you. If you like, I can order someone to carry your things…”  
“I’m fully capable of handling that myself, thank you very much.” Cullen rolled the map together and put it under his arm. “If you excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”  
Solas looked after him as he walked across the courtyard. His shoulders were lifted and his back straight as a fire poker. It must be the stress he’d been under lately; these last few weeks his temper had been bad at best and his outbursts violent. Maybe it worried Cullen more than he wanted to show, the decision to make Dirthara Inquisitor. It would put him in a difficult position as her military advisor; Cullen would most certainly have prefered someone with a soldier’s background, someone who knew enough to make tactical decisions, someone who not only was a war hero but also looked the part. How Mother Giselle had talked him, Leliana and Josephine into it was beyond his comprehension. Only Cassandra left to convince, and she was difficult.  
Well, she responded quite nicely to confidence, so he hoped that the others were sure enough about the reasons why Dirthara was their only choice.  
Solas turned around and walked back inside when Cullen disappeared through the door in the tower. 

There had been a couple of hectic weeks. People were streaming to Skyhold to get a glimpse of the Herald of Andraste, and they were more than disappointed when they heard she wasn’t there. While they waited for her return, the stories about her grew. He never thought that someone with an elvish background would be risen to such a height in this day and age. Mother Giselle had made it perfectly clear though that more would come when Dirthara accepted the title Inquisitor, and even though Dirthara wasn’t a believer, she had a budding cult rising by her feet.   
It had put a lot of pressure on all of them. Dirthara was young, petite and Dalish - since she hardly looked like a force to be reckoned with, Skyhold would have to do that for her. With help from Josephine, Solas had taken it upon himself to rebuild the old fort. Josephine, who quickly noticed that it wasn’t just wellwishers, devoted followers and gapers taking the time and effort to climb the steep roads to Skyhold, was fast to action. Politically, it would look bad to stay here under current circumstances, and the renovations would have to be done fast. Carpenters, masons, fletchers; the grounds were sprawling with workers, and things were starting to shape up with quite the impressive speed. Even the master bedchamber was in order, waiting for Dirthara’s return.

Solas hadn’t seen her in the fade since that last time. Not because he hadn’t looked, but because he hadn’t found her. Both disappointing and a relief, but he wasn’t worried. Not this time; he found traces of her all over. Spirits were talking, and from what he understood she was practicing his latest advice. He believed he knew what was keeping her awake at night, and to be honest it felt good to have his privacy back. Solas could for once relax and begin his search for the lost eluvian with new energy.  
The first week, he still found it difficult to focus. He realized quite soon that one of the reasons was the plaid. It carried her scent, which apparently was enough to put him off track. Since the plaid had found a new spot in his armchair, he’d been sleeping better, but he couldn’t even muster the will to launder it. There was something comforting in the thought of having a small reminder of her there in the rotunda, and just a look across the room towards that tattered old thing in brown and green wool made him feel lighter at heart.

So, when he went to bed that night, he was considerably certain of at least one thing: he wouldn’t dream of her.  
Well, except if he wanted to, of course.  
Which wouldn’t be a very dignified thing to do, since the images polluting his mind was of a rather intimate manner and… Crap. Now that was all he could think of - a book, he needed to read a book to clear his mind.  
One book later he almost felt like his old self back in the Fade. He even found a trace of the eluvian. It had been in Ferelden, close to the border of Orlais not too long ago. Two people were connected to it.   
It was all a coincidence really. At first, all he saw was a desperate man on a desperate hunt. An elven mage with black hair but no vallaslin. He had to be from the Circle, had that poise and posture. Fereldan flares and gestures as he formed the spells, but to Solas’ amazement he also was an Arcane Warrior of an ancient school. That was why Solas became curious - Dirth'ena enasalin was a path that had been forgotten since… Well, apparently not completely lost. Farras - Solas still couldn’t think of him without cringing - Farras had been follower of another forgotten path: Vir Banal’ras. Solas found it curious that things like this found its way back to the surface after such a long time.   
Solas followed the elven mage with fascination, forgot the mirror for a moment while the young man travelled through Ferelden with…  
Leliana?  
Yes, that had to be her. A younger and more innocent Leliana, someone who skipped while singing along the roads where others walked.  
Wait. That could mean… The dark haired elf was shown much respect, a natural but brooding leader who seldom spoke, a darkness lurking inside him. The Warden! This was the Hero of Ferelden! If he followed him, he would find the eluvian!   
The hunt became more single-minded when the elf found new traces. He was looking for a woman, someone who filled his entire body and soul. A witch of the wilds, a blackhaired beauty with yellow eyes…  
Yellow eyes. Solas was almost certain he had seen someone like that before. When the elf finally found her, Solas knew. He had not seen her, but both her sister and her mother. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, these witches had shown up all over through the years, intervening where the shemlens were taking things too far without knowing. Hidden and in secret, guiding with a caring hand and then disappearing into the shadows again.   
When the mage and the witch disappeared into the eluvian together, Solas almost felt relieved. A romantic story with a happy ending surrounded by blight. The Warden deserved his peace, just like Hawke did. They had done their part.  
But at some point his dreams took a different turn. If it was a scent or a vague memory of spring that pulled him away from his investigation he didn’t know, he just realized that everything around him changed. Slowly, step by step, one small thing at the time. At first it was the flowers, crocus and snowdrop slowly unfolding their petals in the cold sun, an icy wind like a punch in the diaphragm almost made him fall backwards in the melting snow. Then it got warmer and the meadow turned green and lush, butterflies fluttering around against the budding background. Where the pale sun had been the hope for a sleeping life, a mild breeze from the sea carried the scent of exotic spices and salt, the lilies in the valley swaying under the trees. He could almost hear the ocean, how the waves rolled in towards the shore. The warmth embracing him, silk under his fingertips and a feeling of inner peace as he crept closer to what felt like safety. Protection from harm, the ultimate freedom - so innocent and carefree. He grasped that feeling and pulled it closer, embraced it back, his arms resting in narrow valleys as if this was where he was supposed to be. He burrowed his face in the scents and could almost taste the sweetness. Bare skin, smooth and warm, a pulse against his lips, the cool water splashing droplets in his face.   
Bare skin.  
This was turning into one of those dreams.  
Solas woke up, and for a short panicked moment he almost believed that his dream had followed him here, or at least fragments of it.  
Bare, silky skin under his fingertips, a warm body close to his, the scent of lilies, droplets of cool water on his face and a feeling of peace. It took him a moment to realize that he was awake.  
Her pale blond hair was wet, he was hiding his face against her shoulder; her body warm and soft, partially wrapped up in a towel, his arms around her in a desperate attempt to pull her closer. Her perfumed soap, his hands over her naked back, her arms around his neck.  
He knew she wasn’t sleeping yet. He hadn’t heard her in his dream.  
So he cleared his throat. “Dirthara.”  
“Hmm?” she muttered against his collarbone, but didn’t move a muscle.  
“This is…” well, it would be easier to say that it was indecent if he at least let her out of this embrace first. Right now, that was out of the question. “Your room is warmer.”  
“And too big”, she replied, and he could feel her breath against his skin as she spoke. “It felt so empty and cut off.”  
How adorable! He could have kissed her for that comment, but instead he snickered. How did she do that; made everything appear so innocent? “Would you like me to help you put up a tent in there?” he asked with laughter in his voice.  
“Not now. I’m too tired.” She sneaked even closer and Solas became more aware of her than before. He swallowed.  
“But you can’t stay here, that would be very unwise.” Right. Contradictory. He wanted her there, even though he knew it was wrong; held her close while he told her she should leave. He made it her choice, even though he was the older of them, the one who should be responsible enough to break this off before it got too far. When his hands unintentionally kept stroking her back, he came to another conclusion that made it very difficult to think of anything else. The towel was all she wore. Fenedhis lasa, he wouldn’t mind going too far right now.

Dirthara

When they reached the camp in the valley below the mountain, Dirthara was so tired she could have fallen asleep on the horseback, but still she was alert enough to notice a difference. Midnight, a bright starry sky above and a long ride behind them, the frosty air making every breath freeze in her nose, and she had to stay awake. Just a little while longer, She could see Skyhold further up the mountainside, every window lit up like a beacon. That was what she had left and that was what she was returning to. This camp was different and it made her wake up. Row after row of tents, torches leading the marching guards along the paths in the snow, strict and structured, like blocks in a larger city. Around the fire sites along the road, fully armed soldiers stood up from their seats and bowed as she approached.  
“Herald.”  
“Your worship.”  
Faces she didn’t recognize, even though she believed she should. New recruits? This many? She’d only been gone for three weeks! She collected herself, smiled and nodded as she passed to mask her confusion, followed by Blackwall, Sera and Cassandra.   
These people knew who she was, and they had never seen her before. How was that even possible?  
“Good evening officers.” Cassandra hopped off her horse and greeted them with a loud voice. “How are things?” Dirthara studied her gestures, tried in her mind to mimic them but realized all too soon that she would only look silly. She knew nothing of this world, this was not her place. In the field; that was where she belonged, a small troop of people sneaking into the heart of a problem to get rid of it. Guerilla warfare, that was what she knew and could relate to.  
“Nothing to report, ma’m.” The officer was from an Orlesian background; spoke with that accent and put his heels together with a clack as he lifted his hand in a salute. Fascinating, the man by his side was obviously from Ferelden and one of the guards was Dalish. Dirthara didn’t know from which clan, but he wore the mark of Andruil on his face. Such a diversity, and still they didn’t seem to quarrel. For once. The Avvar from the bogs in the south would not fit in with this group though, she was sure of it.  
Well, the enemy of the enemy is your friend. They would most certainly agree upon something. She hoped they would arrive soon, she would very much like to continue her conversations with Amund the Sky Watcher.  
All the way up the mountain, soldiers stood up from their fire to salute them, guards were patrolling the roads and the occasional camp of pilgrims was dotted out in the snow along the path. So many people, and every single one of them recognized her as the Herald. What was it Solas had said; that she had made impact? This was not about making impression, this was far worse. They looked up to her, and she didn’t know the answers they wanted.   
Cassandra rode up by her side and yawned, so timely Dirthara almost thought the Seeker must have noticed how much this feared her. “That bath you were talking about, Herald. We’re almost there”, the Seeker said with an askew smile.  
“Mmm, with foam, scented soaps…” Dirthara darted a longing glance towards the fort up the hillside. “And after that, I could sleep for a month.” In her cold tent on the court yard. No, she deserved a warm bed after this. It was worth the money to rent a room at the Herald’s Rest, at least this once. She hadn’t slept in a bed since they left Haven, and it felt like an eternity had passed since then.  
“You’ll miss breakfast tomorrow. Just think about it”, Cassandra pointed out, still grinning.  
“Toast, marmalade, fried pork and eggs”, they both murmured unisonally, then they laughed.  
“Baths and breakfast. Pfft!” Sera turned to Blackwall. “Hey, do you think they'll have pie when we get back? I could use a pie. Or three.”  
Blackwall snickered. “That's... a lot of pie for one person.”  
“You'd understand if you've ever been hungry. In your bones hungry.” Sera paused for a moment before she took a deep breath. “Beer. I bet Bull is still up. Let’s drink him under the table!”  
Dirthara snorted. She almost wanted to see this; a table about to topple over from beer and pie, Sera trying to get Bull drunk and Blackwall a curious bystander.  
Blackwall laughed and shook his head. “You tried that, remember?”   
Sera shrugged. “Been there, done that, pfft. You up for it or what?”  
“Sure.” Blackwall scratched his chin. “Beer and pie. Sounds perfect.”  
“Great, innit?”

They rode through the gates, but Dirthara was too tired to look around. If she had been more observant, she would have noticed how all the tents had disappeared and how the courtyard wasn’t covered in rubble anymore. She hopped down from the horseback and was just about to head over to the inn together with Sera and Blackwall when she was interrupted by one of Cullen’s guards.  
“I was ordered to help you carry your things to your quarters, Herald”, he said with a bow.  
Sera stopped and turned to Dirthara with a grin. “Aw, Sleeping on a pile of the softest gold, with big-hat priests patting your butt, all singing and playing trumpets?”  
“What?” Dirthara was too exhausted to connect the dots. Cullen knew they were coming? Well, of course he did. Leliana’s agents reported to him as well as to Leliana, and she knew everything about everything. Dirthara smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, but it’s not that far, I can take care of it myself.” She turned back to Blackwall and Sera.  
“Excuse me, Herald, but the inn is full. A room has been prepared for you in the main building.”  
Ah. Of course. With so many on the roads, Herald’s Rest had to be full. She had hoped for a bath and a warm bed, but if the main hall was enough for everybody else, it would have to be enough for her. She could probably find a fallen pillar or a rock of some sort to use as a pillow. Damn it. Dirthara turned around again with a forced smile on her face. “Well then. Lead the way.”

Too good to be true, that was her first impression. The room was big enough to fit her entire clan, maybe even a halla or two. And a bath - a copper tub had been carried up and stood just by the window, filled with steaming hot water - someone must have read her mind!   
Probably Cole.  
But after the bath, when she had crawled into bed - so soft, she felt like she was resting on clouds - she couldn’t fall asleep. Too quiet. Something was missing.  
Solas.   
No, she wasn’t missing him, that was just…  
Well, actually… They’d been apart for three weeks, that was practically an eternity.  
No, it wasn’t him she was missing, it was just the company. She wasn’t used to this. Sure, she liked her privacy, but had she ever in her life been completely alone?  
Suddenly the room felt too big, too empty, almost terrifying. Far off in a tower, walls and floors of stone between her and all the others - what if something happened, a disaster, she would be the last to know, and her tower would crumble and crush everybody under her.  
Twisting and turning under eiderdown, thoughts winding up into knots, screwed so tightly every muscle was clenching. Staring at the ceiling, counting sheep, sweating like a pig even though she was freezing, then eventually giving up.   
Dirthara kicked herself out of the sheets and stood up, scratched her head - her hair was still wet. Panting, panic, heart beating like a hammer, she rushed towards the stairs down, grabbed the towel in the passing and wrapped herself in it. Had to run, feel the air against her skin, take a breath to clear her head, but her feet didn’t lead her outside. The rotunda. Only Solas’ lantern with veilfire burning, a sickly green light in the room making every shadow long and ghostly, the magic from his wards tingling on her skin. A low murmur from the birds upstairs, the sound of wind. Cold, goosebumps, she should have put on some clothes.  
But Solas was asleep. So peaceful in his large couch, every breath following a calmer beat. A longing pulled her closer, she admitted desperately that she really had missed him and crawled up by his side, hid her face against his shoulder. So warm, so safe, his pulse forcing her heartbeat down. Knots untangling, bolts unscrewed, she inched closer and put her arms around his neck with a sigh. Unwinding, finally finding harmony - now she could go to sleep.  
Then she felt Solas’ arms around her. He pulled her near as he inhaled deeply through his nose, and for a moment she thought he was awake.  
What was going on, why was she here, what would she tell him? That she had missed him? No. Keep to the facts, feelings were tangible. She couldn’t fall asleep all alone, that was a fact. Then his lips brushed against her neck, almost a kiss, her pulse went back up.  
“Mir nehn”, he murmured with his nose close to her ear.  
My joy. Dirthara almost felt sad for him, and at the same time she was touched. Felt guilty for not feeling the same. He made her feel silly and awkward, made her react in ways she shouldn’t react; that was hardly joy, more like frustration.   
Oh, shoot. She didn’t know what she felt at all, just knew that she needed everything about him, right there and right now, to be able to feel anything at all. So she stayed in his embrace and decided to just go with the flow, do what felt right and don’t give a rat’s ass about all those awkward things she said and did because of him. His hands over her back making her shiver, every breath tickling against her ear, the warmth from his chest through that tattered tunic and the scents of moss, soap and leather.  
Then he froze, stayed where he was but at the same time removing himself from the scene. He cleared his throat. “Dirthara.”  
So. Now he was awake. Full throttle on the awkwardness. How could she explain this mess?  
She didn’t have to. Not until he asked. Just pretend that nothing is out of the ordinary.  
“Hmm?” Nothing to see here; move along, people. Right.  
“This is…” Solas paused, sounded like he was about to scold her, then his tone changed. “Your room is warmer.”  
Pfft, lame.   
Wait, her inner dialogues were starting to sound a lot like Sera.  
“And too big. It felt so empty and cut off.” True, true, but that hardly explained why she decided it was appropriate to sneak into his bed… couch… whatever. Her answer made him loosen up a bit though. Solas snickered, and at the same time his embrace around her tightened. A short squeeze that made Dirthara’s heart skip a beat.  
“Would you like me to help you put up a tent in there?” His voice a deep vibration against her ear, the laughter in his voice making every nerve in her tingle, his fingertips ghosting over her back giving her goosebumps. No, she wanted to stay. Wasn’t that rather obvious?  
“Not now. I’m too tired.” Yeah, right. Not anymore. Wide awake, strangely conscious of nothing but him, every sinewy muscle in his arms, a surprisingly hard chest under that tunic, an intense desire to feel his skin under her fingers.  
“But you can’t stay here, that would be very unwise.” Solas voice a gravelly rumble.  
Dirthara grunted. He was right. People would talk. Especially since she was dressed in a towel, that was hardly considered suitable. She sneaked out of his embrace while covering herself with the towel, cheeks burning from embarrassment. “Could you lend me something to wear?”


	19. The making of an Inquisitor

Solas

Solas chuckled to himself as he sat down by his desk the morning after. Herbal tea in a cup beside him, a clean sheet of paper in front of him and a new pile of books by his feet. The library downstairs was in a remarkably good shape, considering how long it had been forgotten.  
Well, that wasn’t his only reason for being in an exceptionally good mood. He had found the last eluvian. This had to be a joke, couldn’t be a coincidence. Laughably enough, the eluvian’s current location was at no other place than in the Winter Palace. The dear Briala, was she even aware? Of course not, he would have known. This witch of the wilds had managed to sneak it into the castle just under Briala’s nose. Was the warden involved in some way?  
This was building up towards the perfect opportunity, really. If Dirthara accepted her new title Inquisitor, a lot of doors would open, and the intel the Inquisition had on a hypothetical murder attempt on Empress Celene…  
Solas paused his train of thoughts to sniff the air. Something that made his stomach rumble.  
Anyway, with enough evidence, Dirthara could approach the Empress. There was a possibility, he just needed to plant the idea with Josephine…  
That scent again. Newly baked bread.  
Well, he’d been working hard for a couple of hours, he was obviously hungry. Of course he deserved a break. Solas stood up from his seat and left the rotunda whistling. 

A strange silence in the kitchen occurred as he entered. Everybody’s eyes on him. Well, not everybody’s; Cassandra and Iron Bull seemed to be busy discussing the importance of proteins for a good muscle build.  
“But you cannot forget about fruits and vegetables, Bull. It makes a huge difference”, Cassandra pointed out with a loud voice. “I promise, it is as if the meats work better together with an apple.”  
Dorian was looking straight at him though, apparently awake for once and already groomed beyond necessity for a breakfast table; Cole, even though he was - as always - hiding his face under the brim of his hat; Sera and Blackwall not as curiously glaring, as they both looked like they’d been having a whole couple of rather rough nights. Varric? Just grinning insinuative, but that was pretty much his thing.  
“Good morning.” Solas grabbed a couple of warm bread rolls and turned around to leave the kitchen. Something was going on here, and it felt uncomfortable.  
“Good morning? Are you serious?” Varric slapped his hand on the kitchen table and began to laugh uncontrollably. “You put up a tent in her bedroom? What’s wrong with you elves?”  
“Elves? Pfft. He’s elfy and so is she, that’s what’s wrong”, Sera muttered and lifted her coffee cup to her lips. “Banging bits has to mean something, yeah? Elven glory, OOH-RAH! All that shit.”  
Now where had they heard this, and why had it been up for discussion around their breakfast table?  
“Not that you have anything to do with that”, Solas replied with a slight bow, which almost caused him to drop a bread roll. “The Herald wanted a tent in her room, and that is what she got.”  
Varric just shook his head. “Well, according to… a reliable source, the tent in her room was your idea.”  
Reliable source? Solas glared at Cole who kept his face hidden as usual.  
“I must say I find your antics rather amusing, Solas. Unwanted attention, is that it?” Dorian leaned backwards in his chair with a smug grin. “Remind me to use that maneuver with my future wife.”  
“Cole?” Solas sighed and shook his head. It really didn’t matter. The boy didn’t know when to stay out of people’s heads.  
“Mixed messages, mourning malady, fire fought with veils.“ Cole shook his head and looked up. “Why?”  
“It’s... complicated, Cole.” Maybe it wasn’t the boy after all. He couldn’t speak in manners comprehensible for most people. His words made Solas feel terrible though.  
“Why are you talking to it?” Sera, who had been pale before, looked almost sea sick now. “Stop, you make my head hurt.”  
“Could all of you lower your voices, just a little bit?” Blackwall closed his eyes and grunted.  
Solas shook his head and turned around to leave, needed a little time to think this through. Mixed messages. Well, to be quite frank, she wasn’t straightforward about this either. It had been a rather embarrassing episode putting up that tent last night. Awkward silences, nervous conversations about nothing at all just to avoid the next problem in their usually so easy relationship. What had happened?  
“Which reminds me: Seeker, you’ve won the bet.” Solas could almost hear how Varric rummaged through his pockets for his notebook. He walked slightly faster towards the door. Did they not regard people’s feelings?  
What was he saying. He was hardly the perfect example in the matter.  
“Do not tell me you have been taking bets without me. I’m heartbroken!” Dorian, being all dramatic, just because he wasn’t everybody’s center of attention. Solas snorted as he took the first step up the stairs towards the great hall. Typical.  
“I won?” Cassandra gasped. “Now, Dorian, this was something we just did for fun in the field half a year ago. The Herald and Solas were the only elves in the party back then and…”  
“Our Inquisitor and dear old Chuckles shared their first kiss a couple of weeks back.” Varric interrupted. Solas didn’t want to hear the rest of Varric’s colorful explication; he didn’t care if he dropped a trail of bread rolls or not at this time. He hurried up the stairs with only one thing on his mind: his peace and quiet, hoped to return to his books without further delay. At least it made it easier to forget, or at least keep it out.

Back in the rotunda, he ate while reading. Didn’t really taste the bread, even though it had felt so important to get it while it was still warm. The book was enough to have him lost in history, centuries he had missed written down. This one about Halamshiral was a masterpiece in itself, but it left all the suffering out. Architecture, that was the main subject, and maybe that was good. He was in need of some light entertainment after that episode in the kitchen. Apparently, the Winter Palace had some parts of the ancient structures intact The new castle had been built upon the remains of the old one after the Exalted March, and the basement seemed to be pretty much untouched.  
Solas looked up from the book. He needed to get in there. To do that, he needed Dirthara to be invited. He could easily be mistaken for an elven servant. That meant that he needed to find evidence that proved what Dirthara already had found out - that an attempted assassination of the Empress was planned. He brushed some crumbs away from the pages in the book before he closed it and put it in the pile among the others on the floor. Back to work. Solas reached for the jar of ink and unscrewed the lid, but as he grabbed the quill, the bottle slipped in his hand. In a failed attempt to catch it, he just made it worse and spilled its content all over his chest.  
“Fenedhis lasa.” His tunic was covered with ink, this wouldn’t come out easily. Solas stood up, pulled the tunic over his head and tossed it in an empty bucket by the door as he walked towards the chest of drawers by the couch. Everything else he had was in pretty bad shape, but it was at least clean.  
Well, it used to be like that anyway. When he pulled out the drawers, one by one, all he could find was trousers, vests and an old sweater that was about to fall to pieces. He glanced towards the bucket. That could hardly be his last tunic, could it? He didn’t really want to buy clothes, that felt so… unnecessary. Well, it wasn’t, he could simply not just run around naked, but still.  
He grunted and pulled the sweater over his head before he walked towards the door to leave the rotunda. He would have to ask Dirthara for some materials, get Dagna to make him something. He stopped mid step because of a shout.  
“I do not want this, Leliana. I can’t believe you made this decision in my absence!” Dirthara’s voice, echoing through the tower. Her outburst caused the birds above to caw even louder and flutter around the pen like nervous hens for slaughter. After that, silence.  
Solas looked down at the tunic in the bucket beside him.  
Another time, perhaps.  
“Come, Herald. Let’s discuss this somewhere else.” Leliana was almost whispering, and still Solas could hear her clearly.  
“This is not something I’m going to discuss. It is out of the question.” Dirthara, still upset, but calmer.  
“Maker’s breath, just listen!” Leliana roared, which made the birds flutter around again. “War room. Now.”  
Moments later they appeared in his room. They both moved silently, one because of her profession, the other because that was how she was brought up. Another thing they had in common at that moment was anger. Leliana composed but with darkness in her eyes, Dirthara with her lips tightly pressed together and her cheeks red. She didn’t look at him as she passed, to Solas relief. This was his doing, because it fitted well with his plans, and guilt was something he couldn’t hide.  
Was this really such a good idea? They could reach the same goals with Dirthara in the field, just like she wanted it.  
No, that would take time. They didn’t have time.  
He watched her back as she left the room, suddenly reminded of her presence the night before.  
What had he done?  
He had been an egocentric twit. Cole was right. Mixed messages and fighting fire with veils. How many times did he have to make the same mistake? Solas sighed and scratched his neck.

Dirthara

Leliana closed the door behind Dirthara’s back before she opened her mouth again. “This is not up for debate, Herald.”  
Hands clenched under crossed arms, the last month since they’d left Haven spinning around in her head like flashing images. Children crying, burning houses, women screaming, men trying to do what they think is right even though they never were supposed to lift a sword. The injured, the dead and the dying, the journey through the snow taking even more lives. Not up for debate? She was not somebody’s property!  
“So you are the one dictating the rules, huh”, Dirthara growled back, and began pacing just to keep her hand from strangling the woman. Not that she would get the chance, she was well aware of who Leliana was. “This Inquisition has been nothing but pain and suffering, is that on your hands?”  
Her hands, everybody’s hands. She was equally guilty. Join me or fight me, cornered rat; same as now. Self defence? They attacked first, Bull’s standard motto - how about provocation? She had become the reason they fought, whether they fought on her side or the other - didn’t matter. She should have seen it in Redcliffe, should have seen…  
And what difference would it make?  
“Pain and suffering. What do you know of pain?” Leliana laughed, but it was a rough and colorless caw. “Did you ever grow up without a mother’s love? Was faith ever your only reason for waking up again after a night’s sleep? Were you ever forced to follow orders that you in your heart knew were wrong? Or forced to steal because you were hungry?”  
Leliana snorted and lifted her chin. “You are a spoilt child.”  
Spoilt. Child. Farras’ words a distant echo, ‘da’len, ma banal las halamshir var vhen’. Dirthara felt like she was boiling, magma instead of blood rushing through her veins.  
Words, just words, they were only powerful if she believed in them. Calm down. A deep breath, gain control. It wasn’t the words she resented, at least not today.  
No, it was this… idea. Asking her to be Inquisitor, and on what grounds? Faith! In how many ways could this be wrong? When was faith about war? It was the other way around - war was about faith, a reason so idiotic it would have been laughable if it wasn’t true. ‘My invisible friend is better than yours, have at you!’ The battles were fought, but by men and elves. The gods never came, so what was the point with praying? Always another obstacle, another fight to stay alive, and what did it offer? Nothing but more blood. And this circus act, what was this? A fight of faith. Hopes and dreams, and hers wasn’t here.  
Faith. It made her feel greasy to know that they had seen a value in such a lie. Controlling the masses with an exaggerated idea. It almost felt like… Dirthara cringed and started to pace faster, her heart rate speeding.  
It was the same, only a different kind of influencing.  
“I’m Dalish, I inherited pain”, Dirthara hissed back, even though it felt like the oldest line in the book. “And faith never helps, faith is nothing but desperate hope.”  
Hope would never be enough. Will and capability, that made difference. Giving her this title, because it would gain them followers? That was not only naïve, it was ruthless.  
The doors opened behind them and Dirthara spun around on her heels. Cullen, Josephine and Cassandra.  
“Seeker, did you know about this?” A glimpse of optimism, just a thin line of light; she wished Cassandra would see things clearer, but when the woman looked away, Dirthara knew. It felt like the whole world fell apart around her. “Oh, great.”  
“You are the only hope we have”, Cassandra murmured.  
Hope. Hope. That word again. To put trust in that… Her pulse in her ears, face turning warm and cold, then warm and cold again, lips dry.  
“This Inquisition is what stands between and end and a future, and you are the only thing all of us have in common”, Cullen tried. He looked tired, as if he had given up rather than made a choice, he knew. He was aware.  
“Cullen, you know very well that an army needs…” Dirthara began, but was interrupted.  
“An army needs a purpose, Herald.” Cullen sighed and looked at Josephine for help.  
“Your name is on everybody’s lips, Herald. What they see is a strong, independent woman from a fragile background, and that speaks to the people.” Josephine paused and bit on her pen with a concerned frown. “Of course, there is the aristocracy. They are getting nervous, and that could cause trouble.”  
Very reassuring. Dirthara grunted and kept on pacing, anger turning into fear. So, they decided to turn this into a threat? Mature move. “I am not waging a war upon the aristocracy”, she pointed out, and made a wide gesture with her hands.  
“It is how the winds have changed”, Cassandra added. “You are the only thing we have against Corypheus, and people is starting to see this.”  
A laugh of disbelief. “People see this? How? They don’t even believe Corypheus exists!” Dirthara turned around and glared at her four advisors. “What they see are rifts and demons! That is why they are here. I’m needed in the field to close rifts, to kick the demons back to where they came from! I’m needed everywhere except here!”  
And why wouldn’t that be enough? This… thing in her hand, she hadn’t asked for it, and it was exhausting, painful, frustrating… And this world! Was it worth saving? People never did anything but fight, reaching for the scraps left on the table, the remains of something larger, forgotten. They would be lost in time too!  
“Even if this isn’t what you want, you have become the reason for a movement; the elves in the alienages are stirring in your wake, the people see a little person doing great deeds and they all want to be a part of it.” Leliana was calm now, almost looked like she could understand Dirthara’s resentment. She paused before she continued, and when she did she looked at Josephine. “You might not be waging a war on the aristocracy, Herald, but you have in fact become a threat.”  
Josephine nodded, Cullen sighed and looked away. Dirthara stopped her pacing. A movement, a threat... that explained why there were so many new recruits in the camp outside the fort. She turned her head and met Cassandra’s gaze. Was this true? Worse than she had imagined, much worse. How would she be able to help all these people?  
Cassandra cleared her throat. “If you were the Inquisitor, you wouldn’t be something the aristocracy could brush under the carpet just as easily, which means you could keep on doing what you do best but with the protection you need. A title opens doors.”  
“And we will always be by your side”, Cullen added, which was amplified by the others nodding.  
Dirthara took a deep breath. “You want me to be the face to the name. No changes in the structure? It doesn’t work like that. If I am to be the face, I need to walk the walk.”  
The women looked like they were counting the chickens before they were hatched, only Cullen furrowed his eyebrows. “Could you clarify?”  
“I need to understand the game to be able to play it. I need to understand how the cogs work in an army, in a network of spies, know our history to make the right decisions and say the right things when I don’t have you there to guide me…” Dirthara paused and shrugged. “And let’s face it. I’m a weak mage. I need to study and practice my trade to be able to protect myself.”  
“So if we arrange these things for you…” Cullen began.  
Dirthara sighed. “Sign me up.” The Lavellan clan just seemed to disappear further and further away into the distance. And her own life? Didn’t appear to be that important. She was only the tool, and they knew how to use her. And she let them. The ultimate tool. Well then. She would have to become stronger, better, tougher.  
A power tool.

“Damned shit-crap ward, fenedhis lasa and the mother of a demon!” Dirthara tossed her staff across the room, hit a vase that fell to the floor with a bang; lilies with broken stalks, cracked Orlesian porcelain in a pool of water, splatter on the walls and the curtains on fire. She had envisioned a ward, just like Solas had suggested, but it didn’t work. Fire, that was one thing; she knew how to handle fire; but wards? She needed more power to make it work. This? A vague glyph on the floor that stayed for a brief moment before it disappeared with a loud but very disappointing plop. Why wouldn’t the spirits just listen to her? They knew, almost instinctively, when she needed aluminum and iron oxide for a brighter flame, but what did she need to make this ward stronger? She had tried veil fire, it almost set the room on fire. Sure, a powerful effect, but it was just that and nothing more. She tried a combination of ice and fire, but that only gave her a storm cloud and lots of boiling hot rain (the rug was still wet). She tried to put an energy blast to the ice, which made her entire room electrified. She needed to find the right element, and for that she needed Solas, but she was, quite frankly, too embarrassed to speak to him.  
And it was late, dusk falling outside…  
Her last resort was books, but what Dorian had managed to scramble together had nothing to do with the physics of magic. History, history, old propaganda, myths, history and more history. She needed something else, and of course there was only one person she could ask about that too.  
Damn it.  
Unless…  
Dirthara rushed her desk, ruffled around in the disordered pile of books until she found what she was looking for. A tattered copy of Spirits of the Spire by Senior Enchanter Francois. An excerpt, something about a binding circle and a spirit of wisdom, she was sure she had seen it somewhere… Ah, there it was! If she just… Well, maybe it was better to try this outside, if things went wrong.  
She grabbed the book and was just about to hurry down the stairs when she remembered that it was getting late.  
Ah. Tomorrow then.


	20. When Fear follows Wisdom

Solas

How come their get-togethers had turned into small soirees over tea and scones Solas couldn’t remember, but somewhere along the road, this part of the fade had taken the shape of a parlor in jade and lavender. The furniture had changed; a long time ago they had been of elven design, now they looked Orlesian, but the colors had always been the same. Her space in the Fade would always be familiar. Dirth, an ever shifting image in a room that only changed when she found something new to study. When Solas approached, she looked up from her book and turned her head. Everything about her slow, even how her clothes and hair moved, how her thoughts formed, and still she knew everything.  
“You come to me as though the Fade were just another wooded path to walk without a care in search of wisdom”, she murmured with her gaze far off in a hazy distance. “It has been long I think, my friend, you must have found a pleasant dream. Please sit down, let me hear about your journeys.”  
Solas wondered if she saw this mirage as he did; the sun outside shining through the windows, the peach tree in bloom, birds singing. Was this scene something that she regarded as beautiful, or was it something many people dreamed of? He sat down, however, in the armchair beside her. “Ah. Yes, a pleasant dream is what have occupied my mind of late.” Dirthara’s face sweeping through his memories; her smile, her scent. She hadn't smiled much lately, if one didn’t count those awkward giggles when... “But just a dream, abandoned and untended.”  
Dith had turned around slowly, as if she was dazed, had studied Solas with curiosity as he passed by and took his seat by the low table. She was old, a remain from a time forgotten by most, her entire being filled with all that history. She probably knew Solas better than he did himself. He missed those days when he didn’t find their conversations slow, felt guilty for wanting her to react faster. Time was, after all, irrelevant, just a figment of reality. Without the veil everything both was and wasn’t at the same time, and in the Fade there still were traces left of those days.  
“We share the ancient mysteries, the feelings lost, forgotten dreams, unseen for ages, now beheld in wonder.” Dirth leaned forward in her armchair, reached for the tea kettle. A precious creation in white china, decorated with violets. “There is something new about you, a shimmer. I am curious.”  
Solas looked out through the window. A field of yellow wheat, dotted with bachelor’s buttons and daisies swaying in the wind like an ocean, beyond that the forest.  
Something new. Solas sighed.  
“You’ve seen her in my thoughts and dreams, the mystery that baffles me. I thought I knew her people but I didn’t.”  
Dirth smiled. An expression with a dreamlike cloudiness, ever changing, more a feeling than a face. “You held on tight to history and watched the times as they passed by; and suddenly that time became enchanting…”  
“I’d give her every piece of me”, Solas murmured, still with his eyes searching through the image Dirth had created. Beyond the blue skies and the moving clouds, a thin membrane that represented every wrong he ever did. “And that is what makes me afraid.”  
“You know her spirit?” Dirth poured tea into two cups, even the hot water moved slowly as if it was syrup.  
Solas nodded and frowned. That was his main concern. He had been this attached before and it didn’t end well. Last time he was stabbed in the back, but this time it would be devastating. He would yet again be left alone, and it would hurt more.  
Dirth placed the tea kettle on the table and removed a droplet of the hot brew from the spout with her fingertip. “But that doesn’t define her, just like Solas and Dirth are two sides of the same essence.”  
Solas looked down at his hands and sighed. Dirth was of course telling the truth, but the memories still pained him. It could be his end, it had been so before, and it wasn’t until when Mythal forced him back into this body that he saw what had become of his other half. It left him scarred, as if his face had been ripped off once more, just as much as it left a hole where he once had been for a second time. “Sulevin and Vhenan'ara are too close to separate, I can’t forget how Falon’Din defined that.”  
“And Fear is old, just like Desire, Deceit and Pride so much alike, you choose to see things and stay blind to others.” Dirth tilted her head and studied his face. Undecipherable, but keeping to the facts. She was reliable like that, and Solas had missed this kind of uncomplicated relations. She kept a confined mind, and Solas remembered when it used to be like that. It had been easier. Cole was drifting away from that in a similar manner as Solas had done so long ago, and even though Cole seemed to want it that way, it made Solas break inside. It would never be easier to handle emotions, it would just not be as disastrous when something went wrong.  
“I’ve made some choices I regret”, Solas replied and reached for the teacup. “And if I tell her... I… I cannot. I can’t handle loss again. She means the world to me and I might hurt her.”  
“So what is more important, then?” Dirth lifted her teacup to her lips and sipped from it, a slow sweeping motion, only to occupy her while they spoke. She would have been a remarkable woman on the other side of the veil, somewhat eccentric, but still remarkable. “Your strife is old, and so are you. The transient beauty of the rose, the lingering scent a memory of desire…”  
“To keep at heart when winter snows, remind you of how darkness will transpire”, Solas continued and remembered a cold day in Haven, Orlesian poetry, her cadence, and he had thought of lilies. How confused he had been then, how confused he still was.  
“I heard you.” Dirth looked away and a faint smile spread on her lips. The teacup returned to the saucer in her hand with a silent clink. “It’s her melody, she’s younger and an optimist. You care for her and fear her joy is fading.”  
Her words struck him like a punch in the face. Her beat, that was what made the difference. The way she viewed the world and shaped it around her, spread her happiness with simple words, expressions. “But that means…” Solas added this to his calculations and shook his head with a defeated grunt. This couldn’t be right. It changed everything - she changed everything. He couldn’t lose her, wouldn’t take that risk.  
“You love her.” Dirth placed the cup on the table and stood up from her armchair with a sigh. A straight posture that matched so well with her sweeping elegance as she moved towards the window. Her back turned, and still Solas knew she was looking beyond the scene she had built. The spirits of the trees and clouds moving with the spirits of the wind, a dance where everything sang the same. She remembered, as did he, and still the Fade was changing. New memories, new dreams closer to the surface, a cacophony of melodies bleeding into the old.  
“Dirthara is of the new age”, Dirth pointed out, but her voice sounded defeated. “We will sink deeper, you and I, into the stories that have been forgotten. The young will never understand, the songs of old are too obscure, the words are known but not the hidden meaning.”  
“Ah.” Solas flinched. On the point. The people never understood what they had lost, and that was why they didn’t miss it. Dirthara’s optimism stood in relation to the time of which she was born. Another blight their biggest fear, their daily lives just petty struggles to make sure they woke up again the next morning.   
“My words will not be dishonest, but they will turn into what you don’t want to hear, my friend.” Dirth spoke slowly, the same distant voice as always, but something had shifted. She was amused, and at the same time afraid. Change was never easy. “You should return home.”  
“I haven’t even touched my tea”, Solas protested, but he stood up from his seat and returned his cup to the table nonetheless.   
“Before it’s too late, Solas.” The parlor fluttered and the furniture morphed as if they were made out of clay and invisible hands were shaping them, pulling them into another form. The only thing that remained was the colors. “Her life is short.”  
“Too late? But her spirit…”  
Dirth shook her head, still without looking at Solas. “I’m old, but not as old as you. You must remember this, my friend. How would you know? Her spirit’s even younger.”  
Thinking in those tracks made Solas feel like a chased rabbit. What if she died? How would he go on? And he had made her Inquisitor - what had he done?

Solas woke up screaming, covered in sweat, panting, an urge to make sure she was still alive. He had not heard her as he reached the surface, was it already too late? The sweater, he couldn’t find the sweater. The blanket, over the armrest of his chair, it still carried her scent. He grabbed it and swept it around his shoulders before he left the rotunda in a hurry. Dark in the great hall, not a sound, the echo of his bare feet against the stone floor. Across the hall, up the stairs, the throne almost ghostly in the dim light shining through the windows behind it - a full moon behind clouds. Solas opened the door to her tower with a loud bang, the staircase leading up still not finished, lurched into her chamber panting.   
She sat on the carpet in front of the fire with a book in her lap, looked up with a jolt when Solas entered.  
“I just wanted to make sure…” Solas began, trying to explain his intrusion as he realized how dumb this would appear. He could feel his ears turn red. Then he noticed what she was wearing. “Wait. Is that… Is that my tunic?”  
“Um…” Dirthara closed the book and stood up, the tattered fabric hanging loosely from her shoulders. She had rolled the sleeves up to the bend of her arms, and still it looked too big, the neckline showing one shoulder and plunging down…   
To keep it simple, the garment revealed her shape even though it hid her skin, and it looked better on her than it did on him. End of story, Solas lifted his gaze to look at her face and nothing but her face, and it felt even more awkward than before.  
“So I take it you need it now?” She murmured with a crooked grin, and Solas was about to protest before he understood what she meant by that. She wasn’t looking him in the eyes, she was studying his bare chest. 

Dirthara

He startled her, so much so she forgot to feel self conscious. Maybe it was because he seemed more disturbed than she did about his irrational behaviour. Barging into her room in the middle of the night, clearly not far from sleepwalking; at first with desperate fear in his eyes and then confusion. It wasn’t like him, losing composition, and it made her feel less inelegant and clumsy. They were even.  
And then, more confusion. It began with Solas noticing what she was wearing. “Wait. Is that… Is that my tunic?”  
It became amusing, since he himself seemed to have forgotten to put on clothes - pants and a plaid hardly counted - and the way he looked at her offered an opportunity. Varric had teased him about it from day one, and it wasn’t until now she noticed. Not ogling, but clearly glancing and not in an unappreciative way. Flattering, sure; he would probably never admit in words that he after all was a sexual being; but their situation was complicated. Well, since Varric had been teasing him about it for such a long time, she could too. She knew how he would react if she suggested…  
What if he didn’t?  
Well, she wouldn’t say no. Her position in the Lavellan clan hardly mattered anymore, her prospects of returning was...   
She took a deep breath, as if she was about to dive into the unknown. “So I take it you need it now?” Not as innocently stated as intended, she couldn’t help but feeling amused beforehand, even though every nerve end was tingling.   
Expectation? Maybe. She was both relieved and a little disappointed when his reaction followed her anticipations as if they had been jotted down on a list: first his eyes widened, then his ears turned red and lastly came the stutter.  
“Ah. No. I mean…” Solas made a gesture towards his undressed state, “Well obviously, but…” His gaze leaving her face, again moving down along her limbs to her toes before he looked away with a snicker and walked further into the room. “That is a matter of debate.”  
“You’re sending mixed messages, Solas”, Dirthara continued, still smiling. Maybe this was cruel, but at the same time she wanted to get back at him for the night before. That… episode had made her feel small. “Now, I’m confused: do you want me to take this thing off or not?”  
“If I want you to…? Hmm. About that... Err, mixed messages, I mean.” Solas sighed and his fingers began to play with the fringed trimmings on the plaid. “I have something that I need to discuss with you, and…” He cleared his throat and swallowed without looking up from the floor. “To be quite frank… That time in the...”  
Dirthara forgot to exhale and her words came out as a breathless gasp. “In the Fade...”  
Solas paused and nodded. “I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill considered, and I should not have encouraged it.”  
Maybe she should have known. He was too predictable that way; so proud. Yes, he was right - it was impulsive and ill considered - but he made it sound like it was her fault, as if he had had nothing to do with it. Her head was spinning, emotions going from a strange excitement to anger and back again, too difficult to handle.   
“You say that, but you’re the one who started with tongue”, Dirthara scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. Cold sweat running down her spine and her heart pounding in her chest, she didn’t know if she should laugh, cry or just slap him.  
“I did no such thing!” Solas lifted his gaze, but if it was with real annoyance or just a facade Dirthara couldn’t say. It hardly mattered, it was infuriating nonetheless.  
“Oh, does it not count if it’s only Fade-tongue?” she jeered.  
Solas sighed and shook his head. “Let me start over.” A long pause followed, where Solas stared into the fire with Dirthara glaring at his profile as if her eyes could force the words out of his mouth. She didn’t deserve this, so why was it so intriguing all of the sudden? He was just being difficult.  
“It has been a long time”, he began when he finally had found the words, “and things have always been easier for me in the Fade.”  
Dirthara snorted. “No surprises there.” But at least he was honest, admitting that there was something going on between them. It hadn’t just been her imagination. She could breathe a bit easier.  
Then he looked up, sighed and smiled. One of those defeated smiles that made her think that she might have been too rough on him. Demanding something that he couldn’t offer.  
She wasn’t demanding anything, only suggesting.   
He took a step closer, studied her face as if he saw it for the first time, lifted his hand and stroked a lock of her hair from her forehead, locked it behind her ear.  
“I am not certain this is the best idea, Dirthara”, he said softly while keeping eye contact. Serious, and yet as usual throwing the burden in her lap. And in a nice way saying that he wasn’t interested in that way. It had been a long time - he could probably have jumped Cassandra if she’d been there with him in the Fade… Nah, that was actually a bit too far fetched.  
But his hand lingered in her hair, fingers entangled just behind her ear.  
“You’re doing it again, Solas”, she murmured, her lips dry and with him this close, the expectations… “Mixed messages.”  
“I’m sorry, this is difficult”, he replied and removed his hand. “What I want is not in your best interest.”  
“You don’t think I’m mature enough to be the judge of that myself?” Who was she kidding, she didn’t have an idea of what was in her best interest, not anymore. Her world had changed drastically and she knew nothing, her plans nothing but rubble around her feet. She knew that she didn’t want him to leave her, at least not right now.  
“Dirthara, you know that’s not what I think of you.” Solas grunted and looked away. The words that followed sounded almost rehearsed, as if he had repeated them in his head over and over like a mantra. “I’m old, older than you think. Life is behind me. You’re young and have it all ahead of you…” he stopped talking abruptly and scratched his neck, a hint of that loneliness swept over his face. She had seen it before, that part of him that he tried most desperately to hide.   
His words were not important, it was what he hid between them that mattered. There was another depth to this and not one that she had predicted.   
The obvious: his age. Even though he looked like he could be in his late thirties, a man with that kind of experience would carry a much older mind. All that knowledge… she had suspected but never really delved into that thought… Her father mentioned once how he had slept for decades to find the secrets of the Dirth'ena enasalin. Solas was a dreamer, how many years had he spent asleep?   
What he tried to hide: his fear. Of causing her trouble, only touched upon rather tangentially, was just another veil to hide behind. She had seen glimpses of his true horrors. If he was more afraid of causing her pain than he was of his own loneliness, his demons…   
Oh, poor Solas. He needed a hug.  
Dirthara sneaked her arms around his waist with a sigh, pulled him close and rested her forehead against his shoulder. Solas froze.   
And yet again Dirthara felt awkward. Personal space and all that. But she didn’t step back. She knew it had been the right thing to do when he finally embraced her back. Rather tentatively at first, but moments later he leaned his head against hers and exhaled slowly.  
“According to my calculations, out of a vast number of probable outcomes, I am likely to lose you in almost every scenario”, he hummed against her temple.   
“Do we have to make everything so complicated? Nothing is inevitable”, Dirthara murmured and closed her eyes. She admired him, but what did he see in her beyond her face? She was just that Dalish girl playing with fire; more likely to lose him than the other way around.   
Playing with fire.   
That was it.   
Dirthara lifted her chin and straightened her back, studied his face while her thought found the shape of a sentence. Defiant, even though she had been indecisive only moments earlier. “I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.”  
Solas responded with one of those shy smiles. “I… May be, yes.”   
His eyes on her lips, arms around her in a firmer grasp, and it felt like she could melt through the floor. And then he cleared his throat and let her go, took a step back. “If I could take a little time to think. There are… Considerations.”   
Dirthara tried to collect herself, crossed her arms over her chest again, but her voice sounded strange when she spoke. “Take all the time you need.”  
All the time you need. Right. Go back to your dream, sleep on it for a century or so. Damn it, she was being so stupid.  
Solas snickered and looked down at his bare feet. “Thank you. I’m not often thrown by things that happen in dreams. But I’m reasonably certain we’re awake now, and if you wish to discuss anything… else, I would enjoy talking.”  
“How about theoretical physics and mathematical models and abstractions of magic through spiritual engagement?” Dirthara suggested quickly, just to clear the air around them.


	21. Crossing borders

Solas

A new morning slowly breaking, and it was just as beautiful as every other morning. The birds praising the sun and the skies just like the dawn before. A soft sprinkle of rain lit by the rays of light, reflecting all the colors of the visual spectrum, every drop a perfect pearl landing in his hand, on the leaves in the trees, in the grass with a dash. His breath a thin mist; everything just as it should be. His foolish smile had no purpose - it was just another morning on the wall outside the rotunda, guards patrolling the bulwarks, Solas with that first cup of herbal tea cupped in his hands where he stood leaning against the balustrade. The sound of the whining hinges from the castle doors echoed through the silence on the yard below, then a bang as the doors fell back into place. A moment later he saw her skipping down the stairs towards the gate. Every step a silent whisper, the blond hair a messy crown around her head. How was it possible for her to miss the waves she caused? How could she not see what she changed? Even the air around her whispered differently; the spirits flocking around that spot in the Fade where she only was when in her deepest sleep. Lilies, proud and fragile, swaying on slender stalks. A strong wind, and they would break, but the scent remained and spread with the wind. Even though he didn’t like to see her leave alone through Skyhold’s gates, he had to admit that only a glimpse of her was enough to make him smile even wider. Early in the morning still; she must have stayed up after he had left her quarters, just like himself. He was exhausted, and at the same time strangely awake, as if he didn’t need his sleep anymore.  
The last of her, the bottom half of her worn and not-so-white-anymore leather coat, disappeared and his worries came over him just as fast. He knew that she needed her time alone and respected that, but his conversation with Dirth the night before troubled him. He wanted to rush after her, and at the same time he knew he shouldn’t. She wouldn’t like that. And, there was a reason for him standing here in the rain. A reason that suddenly felt shallow and unimportant. And yet, to think of the world around him in those manners made him shallow and egocentric. Inner struggles, it was strange that no one saw them. No one knew what it was like to have these conflicting feelings, to bite back on the anger, hide the pain away and at the same time being haunted by a hopeless dream.  
Well, Cole did. Thankfully not all the time. Solas had to close the boy out of his head to keep him away from the worst parts. His conscience was too heavy, held him back on the ground where his heart would have had him flying.   
But every time he looked at her, Dirthara, that dream didn’t seem too unreasonable after all. Flying, leaving everything else behind. She was willing to take the chance, if he was.  
If he could drop the weight of his conscience, throw his mask away and just be what he once was born to be, she would be the reason. This long life was a curse, but there were glimpses that offered hope. Surprises that made him realize that there still were things out there that he didn’t know, that he wished to understand.  
Solas chuckled to himself.  
Mathematical abstractions of magic. Who else would suggest that as a subject for small talk? And last night, she had seemed so confident, as if she had figured something out. She understood how his mind worked, better than he understood her, and maybe that was why she was so fascinating.  
He would have to make a decision at some point. Dirth could be right, and the question would then be what he chose to give priority to. For Dirthara’s safety, he didn’t dare to involve her in his plans, so what was left? Leaving either her or the rest of the world - he couldn’t have both, and the realities where she stayed were still very few.  
But she was willing to take the chance, and she was Dalish. A chance was never just a chance.   
Solas squinted towards the rising sun as it climbed over the snow covered mountain tops in the horizon. It was still precious, this world, maybe even easier to be a part of for most. A change would destroy so much, maybe even her.  
He had to be sure though, and until then there was no reason for tears in the rain. For now, this was a new day, a feeling he couldn’t describe in any other words. A perfect dawn.  
“Master Solas.”  
Ah. Well, there was always something to destroy the mood. Solas turned around, one of Leliana’s agents approaching along the wall. Ah, that was at least his first impression. The armor was right. An elf, a young woman without a vallaslin, but not the with the proud posture of either Bull’s or Leliana’s spies. The subservient demeanor of a servant, which prompted him to think that she had been (or maybe still was; when it came to double agents one couldn’t be sure) one of Briala’s people. Since he didn’t recognize her face, he could at least be certain of one thing: she came from Halamshiral. Did it matter who she worked for?  
“Yes?” He was pretty sure what this was about, and if anything, this would make his decision even more difficult.  
“There are negotiations between Empress Celine and Grand Duke Gaspard. In Orlesian manner, there is going to be a ball.” The elf bowed her head and gave him a letter without further ado before she continued to speak with a lower voice. “Our people will need a strong representative at this peace talk.”  
Our people. Solas had to focus to not cringe. Our people. He kept his facade and bowed his head as he put the letter in his vest pocket. There was hardly time to read it now.  
“Ma serannas.” He needed to give something back though to keep these exchanges profitable. Something Briala would want to know, which at the same time didn’t cross his own path. Felassan had been a remarkable infiltrator, devoted to the cause until… Well, if one wanted something done well, one would have to do it oneself. Felassan had been a pawn well played, just as Briala would be soon enough. She was becoming impatient, and her means desperate.  
“If the Inquisition was involved in the negotiations, that could be arranged”, he said casually as he reached for another letter in his other pocket. Little secrets that could seem huge, copied from the messages Iron Bull was allowed to send to the Ben Hassrath. “I believe Gaspard would be impressed by the Inquisitor if she got the chance to save him from a tricky situation.” The only language the Grand Duke understood, and quite frankly the only part of the Game Dirthara was yet able to play. They were both practical people.  
The spy received the letter with a nod, bowed and left. The wheels were in motion. With Briala’s involvement in the civil war - disrupting on both sides - she knew how to take the next step. He just had to sit back and wait.

Dirthara

The rain was just a drizzle, but it was enough to make Dirthara feel cold. Soon enough these droplets would creep into the fabric of her clothes in that dubious way only a spy or an army of Dalish hunters would and disrupt everything. Her clothes wouldn’t look wet, but she would most certainly feel drenched. To be honest, she prefered the more honest rain, full blown warfare without backstabbing. Dirthara pulled her coat tighter around her as she hurried down the path towards the guard encampments below the mountain. In her backpack she had the book, Spirits of the Spire by Senior Enchanter Francois, rolled up in a blanket to keep it dry. Still, she hoped to find the Avvar somewhere along the path; binding a spirit was her last resort. For a couple of reasons, really. She was a rather weak mage, and as a Dalish elf she remained doubtful towards blood magic, even though Dorian seemed alright. Lyrium was something she never had used either, and even though she had stolen a couple of bottles that same morning and packed it together with the book, she wasn’t sure if she would dare to digest it. Not after what Varric had said about lyrium being alive. Blood of the earth? Or the remains of the titans? That would explain why Cole thought the templars sounded like dwarves. And how would that affect her future connection to the Fade, if it made the templars search for something deeper within instead of… And addiction. That sounded scary.  
To add more to that, Solas spoke rather fondly about the spirits of the Fade, as if they were people. There had been a discussion a while back between Solas and Dorian - hm, that would be to put things mildly; whenever they spoke, it seemed to turn into an argument - where Dorian stated that spirits were held as slaves just like elves back in Tevinter. Did that make spirits similar to elves in some way? Solas had mentioned at some point that elves originated from something spiritual… Whatever that meant.  
Damn it, she hoped Amund the Sky Watcher had arrived.  
A summoning circle. It would have been easier to build one with ice, she thought to herself as she kept walking down hill, but she hadn’t really figured that element out quite yet. She saluted the guards in the camp with a smile as she passed, but her mind was far away. If they had tried to speak to her in other terms than her titles, she would have appeared either deaf or dumb. But Avvar? No, they hadn’t arrived yet. Strange, since these parts of the mountains was a region they were familiar with. According to what she had read about Skyhold, it had once been sacred grounds for the ancient elves, and after that - which was obvious when one came to think of it - under Avvar control. She didn’t know though how long it had been empty before Solas found it.  
Hm. Solas. He wouldn’t like this. And Amund wasn’t anywhere to be seen.  
Was this really such a good idea?  
Dirthara stopped on the path and looked over her shoulder, followed the long winding road with her gaze up the mountain and peeked against the rain at the fort.  
It had to be done, and this was the place. There was old magic here, something deep within the mountain, and with the mark on her hand she could tap from…  
Yes! That was it!   
She spun around and left the path to find a secluded spot. She wouldn’t need either blood magic or lyrium; the area around Skyhold had a different bond to the fade, as if its ancient elven name had something to do with it. Tarasyl'an Te'las: the place where the sky was held back. The veil felt different.   
Dirthara placed her backpack in the snow and picked up the book, unfolded it carefully from the blankets and searched for the right page.   
Hm. The spells suggested to form the pillars in the circle were simple, she thought she could manage, but it would draw much power from her. The mages who had carried the experiment out had used lyrium, but they were many and in a Circle tower.   
Dirthara would need an open route through her to the veil. Risky, since she would become an easy target for ill willing spirits.  
And she was alone.   
This was a really bad idea.   
She took a deep breath to make that heavy lump in her stomach disappear.  
“Alright”, she murmured, “you’re surrounded by snow, it would be an easy task to collect it into massive ice.”  
Yeah, maybe for someone who knew this. Damn it. She would have to reverse the effect...  
Another breath, then she began.  
Her left hand lifted towards the sky, but instead of letting the veil tear energy from her, she pulled. With every ounce of her will, her focus a straight line, nothing but the vision of the veil bending to her will.   
Nothing happened. She pulled harder, sweat pushing through her pores, every muscle burning and pulsating, urging her to stop.  
This was useless.  
No, don’t give up! Try harder; mind over body! An open channel, a stream, visualizing the force of a tidal wave, focus, focus…  
And then it came. Crashing down on her, a force stronger than she had expected. It felt like drowning, and at the same time as if she was blown away when it hit her. Like a hurricane, but it felt like water and reacted like fire. She saw nothing but green light, every limb searing as if her skin was peeling off from the scorching heat and every breath filled her lungs with an inferno.  
Veilfire!   
Her primitive subconscious was about to take control, only logic would rule it out.   
Veilfire, only veilfire! Focus, envision the ice!   
In her mind, the snow began to twirl in circles, faster and faster, pressing harder and harder; compact, solid, tougher than ice. Like diamond, she needed it to be strong like diamond. Five sharp peaks, that’s what she saw, about her height, pointing towards the skies. And the snow kept dancing, and the veilfire ran through her with such a force she was beginning to think the only way to stop it was for her to die. The pain was too great, she couldn’t withstand this much longer.  
Hang in there, your body is weak. Keep your focus!  
Only moments later, she fell to the ground, completely drained.  
Moments, by the way.   
It felt like moments.   
When she opened her eyes again, it was turning dark. The rain had stopped, a clear sky above her head and stars lighting up the sky in the distance.  
Was it…? Was she alive? Dirthara wiggled her toes in her boots, but they were too cold, she couldn’t feel anything. Had she been out? No, she was panting. She stayed there on her back for a while, breathing, and just to occupy herself while regaining control, she began tracing every star sign she remembered from her childhood. Silentir, or Dumat, with horns and staff. Fenrir, if she read ancient Tevinter folklore, Fen’Harel more close to her own history, and then there was that old Neromenian story about the wolf who fled to the sky…  
“They are all true.”  
Dirthara sat up from surprise and looked around. That voice, was it in her head, or was it real? Noticed how the mountains around her were swept clean from snow, a rock had fallen and crushed the frozen ground beside her.   
Then she saw it. Or her. Dirthara found it difficult to decide at first; the image was fluttering and the voice had been so androgynous.  
“How is it possible?” she whispered, wasn’t yet sure what she was asking about; the stars or the fact that there actually was a summoning circle of solid ice in front of her and some sort of a person in the middle of it. The pillars reaching for the skies like sharp teeth, and with a relaxed posture sitting on the ground between them a woman in green, black and purple. Or at least it felt like colors, she wasn’t sure. Light and shadow, moving around making the shape of a face appear where there in reality was no matter.  
“You made it wrong”, the creature replied calmly, but slowly, as if she in reality was thinking about something completely different. “My pain and anger would not make it easy to reverse the spell, Dirthara.”  
Too perplexed by the fact that she had been addressed by her name, Dirthara forgot to be fascinated by the being herself. She had so many questions, and they just disappeared. “How… how do you know me?” she stuttered.  
It had to be a spirit. It was supposed to be, but with the summoning circle, it would have been corrupted into a pride demon, why was it a spirit?  
...Oh. Right. She had done something wrong.  
But that was good, wasn’t it? This was actually better! A spirit of wisdom!  
The being of light and shadow snickered, but distant mindedly. “Solas told me about you, but somehow he forgot to reveal my nature to you… rather mystifying.”  
Ah. That stung. “So you’re ...good friends?” Dirthara studied the creature more carefully, still found it difficult to find a shape in all that light. Solas and a spirit of wisdom, she shouldn’t be surprised, but still… This was who he visited in his sleep, who he exchanged fruitful conversations with, who he never introduced her to during all these months, because…  
She was not on their level, had nothing to offer to further their knowledge.  
“He is one of my oldest friends, at least in some realities.” The spirit nodded slowly, then tilted her head. Dirthara got the feeling that she was studying her in return, with just as much curiosity. Then she laughed. “I understand now why he never told you.”  
Yes, they were more alike, even spoke in the same pattern. And she had thought… Well, maybe she never saw it like that, but now… It wasn’t strange that he needed time to think, he was just being polite. She was the Inquisitor, would he dare to give her an honest no? And she never thought it would hurt that much, but it wasn’t until now that she realized what she wanted and never would have.   
What she felt towards Solas was something deeper.  
“I’m very pleased to have met you”, Dirthara murmured and lowered her gaze. “It’s an honor.”  
“You called me here to tell me this?” The spirit stood up and more swept than walked over the bare mountain towards Dirthara.  
Not that it mattered anymore - nothing did - but Dirthara shook her head. “I did this to understand the theoretical physics of magic through spiritual engagement”, she whispered.  
“It seemed to work, that’s what I hear”, the spirit replied and stopped just a few steps away. If it was an illusion of clothes swaying in an non-existent breeze, or if this was how she preferred to appear, Dirthara didn’t know, but it made her look like she was floating.   
“The transient beauty of the rose, the lingering scent a memory of desire to keep at heart when winter snows, remind you of how darkness will transpire”, the spirit continued slowly, “It gives him joy.”  
“How… nice.” Poetry? What was this, a give-away of clichés? Romantic drivel, Cassandra would probably love it.  
The spirit looked towards the skies and sighed. “It was nice seeing you, Dirthara. Even though the circumstances was… a bit unorthodox. My name is Dirth. If you would like to talk sometime.”  
Dirthara nodded, but when she looked up, the spirit was gone. The only proof of her visit was the five pillars of ice stretching towards the skies.  
Not even that could she do right.


	22. Guilt

Solas

Tea, something strong, something to remove this feeling of pain, his head, it felt like it was about to explode. Her voice through the Fade had been a scream for help, and then he lost her. Solas had rushed after her, Dirth, the closest thing he had left to family, traced the memories, found a whiff of her in Enavuris, the Exalted Plains.  
Elves? No. Blood magic and lyrium was not accepted, and they knew better.  
He put the kettle over a flash of fire rummaged through his jars of tea for the strongest he could find. A bitter taste that made him alert, he needed to see this clearly, needed to remove this from his mind to be able to think straight.  
Mages. Shortsighted, irrelevant shemlens living their shortsighted, irrelevant lives. Circle towers locking mages in were a bigger threat to society than apostates roaming free, wasn’t this proof enough of that?  
But this… How was it even possible? Dirth, always exploring the depth of the Fade, searching even further than where Solas went. Dirth, who seldom found the material world worth her time had been close to the surface, otherwise they wouldn’t have caught her. Why? Dirth never left her secluded part of the Fade anymore, others came to her.  
Oh.  
Something lured her.  
The water began to boil. He removed it from the fire and dropped a full spoon of dry leaves into an old porcelain kettle with a chipped stout. Pink roses painted on the outside, not very well done. His hands were shaking, half of the content on the spoon fell on the table. He gave up and turned the jar upside down over the teapot, poured half of it into the kettle before he poured the water. Clatter when the two kettles touched, one of copper and one of porcelain.  
What could she have found interesting enough to explore? Something, someone... A later dilemma he would delve into - if it was worth her time, it was worth his. She knew enough about everything to see it for what it was, something must have peaked her interest, and now she was gone. More important. That pain, he knew what it was, remembered it vividly. His name was a reminder of what he never wanted to become again, and yet his pride had made him do so many irresponsible things throughout the years. Dirth was younger, but more confident, this was forced upon her. Like ripping the face off, a violation of the will.  
Tea.  
Strong. The water had turned dark brown. His hands were shaking when he finally could pour the hot brew into his cup, but his tastebuds were protesting even before he put the cup to his lips. Choked it down, didn’t care that it burnt his tongue, cringed from the taste and reached for a glass of water. The taste, he detested it. Needed to rinse the palette, remove this… urgh. Emptied the glass so fast that half of it poured down his chin and neck.  
Tea. More tea. Still stuck, the dream wouldn’t let him go. A familiar dislodging wrench in the doorknob followed by an almost inaudible entrance, a very loud white noise drowned by scenes repeating themselves in his head over and over again, change through violence, revolution, whatever happened to…  
“Solas, I just want you to know that I am truly sorry for…” Dirthara’s voice. Solas turned around, looked at her, surprised to see her there and at the same time grateful. She was the only one who would understand.  
“Dirthara, I need to ask you a favour”, he interrupted. “A friend of mine…”  
Dirthara paused and furrowed her eyebrows. “You want my help?”  
Solas just nodded, couldn’t find the words, needed to stay collected. Everything he heard was the sounds from his dream, over and over again, and it made his blood boil. A flashback from a time long gone, fear and anger pulling out the worst of him to the surface. He thought he would forget, he thought it would become easier, but it never did. She didn’t need to hear it, see it; that was not who he wanted to be.  
Inhale.  
One, two, three.  
Exhale.  
Now, keep your voice calm, you don’t want her to panic. You know what happens. She starts to cry, and you can’t handle that.  
Damn it. She already looked like she was about to cry. Her big eyes glossy, face pale, dark rings under her eyes.  
Tired. Already too much to think about, no sleep. Poor woman, what had he done to her? He knew this, didn’t hear her in his dreams anymore, and everything felt empty. And now Dirth! What was he to do? Everything around him falling apart!  
One thing at the time.  
Breathe.  
Can’t carry all this weight at the same time. One burden, solve it, then the next. Dirthara was alive and well, she could wait. Dirth on the other hand… The screams echoed through his mind and his hands started shaking again. Solas put the teacup down on the table with a loud clink.  
Breathe.  
Stay levelheaded.  
If he showed desperation, it would rub off on her.  
“I heard the cry for help as I slept”, Solas began and stood up from his chair, crossed his arms to hide his shaking hands. Kept his breath steady, voice calm, everything in his power to not scare her away. “Mages… She was summoned against her will… A summoning circle, I presume.”  
“She?” Dirthara sighed. “Oh.”  
In that moment he was so thankful that Dirthara didn’t object to the thought; would anyone else respond this serenely? Well, yes a tranquil, of course but... The point was, he was right. She was the only one he knew who could help him in this matter, at least on this side of the veil. It made him feel a little lighter at heart, she brought that brightness with her, that joy which gave him hope. It made him speak more freely; still trying to stay composed but he could at least share his thoughts.  
“She must have been too close to the surface, that’s not like her, I don’t understand this…” Wide gestures, pacing, voice slowly becoming louder and louder, need to focus, keep calm. It was easier to have someone to talk to, someone who listened, it cleared his mind. “She wants my help to gain her freedom and return to the Fade...”  
“Summoned.” Dirthara nodded slowly and looked down at her feet. “Why would they summon her?”  
“I don’t know, should I?”Solas grunted, noticed that he sounded angrier than needed.  
Inhale.  
One, two, three.  
Exhale.  
“Guidance? She’s a spirit of knowledge, they could just as easily have visited her in the Fade if they had questions…” Solas scratched his neck, her voice in his head screaming, her agony resonating through his every fibre, the fear and rage...  
“So.. she didn’t want to be here. You’re sure about that?” Dirthara began pacing too, and Solas realized he was making her nervous. “I mean, we meet spirits and demons every day who really seem to want to be here, what makes you so sure? I thought spirits wanted to find their way into this world.”  
Solas froze and glared at her. “Some do, certainly! Just as many Orlesian peasants wish they could journey to exotic Rivain. But not everyone want to go to Rivain!” He appreciated her curiosity, but at the same time the situation made him frustrated. He needed to leave, now. Preferably, a week ago, but that wasn’t doable without some tampering that could destroy the time-space continuum. Whatever happened from this moment and on, he would have to deal with it, with or without her help - but to be honest he doubted he could do this on his own, too much emotion involved, couldn’t keep…  
“Of course I’ll help, Solas.” Dirthara was still pacing, eyelashes resting against her cheeks as she studied her feet. “In any way I can. That is the least I...”  
Solas felt how some of the weight on his shoulders fell, turned to her and could have kissed her if he hadn’t regained control over himself in time. Placed his hands on her shoulders instead, smiled as if every life in the world depended on her.  
Well, to him, every life in the world that mattered, for the moment. There was only one Dirth of her age and knowledge, and spirits of wisdom hardly grew on trees these days. “Thank you! We need to leave now, she’s somewhere in Dirthavaren.”  
“The… Dales?” Dirthara looked up and met his gaze, face turning pale. “That’s impossible…”  
“It’s most certainly not elves”, Solas assured her, “you know as well as I that elves wouldn’t treat spirits like that.”  
“Yeah.” Dirthara swallowed, as if she was about to throw up.  
Oh, no. She was really looking tense. He had put too much pressure on her. He knew she needed a good overview, knew she wanted to plan ahead, this was too abrupt. Well, there was no time to lose, they would have to figure this out on the way.  
“Solas, I need to tell you something”, she murmured.  
“Not now. We need to leave.” Solas let her go and turned around to grab his backpack. “Pack your things, I’ll wait by the stables.”  
“It will take days to travel that far, Solas.” Dirthara appeared like she had lost everything. Powerless, with that abject posture of a city elf. “Even with fresh horses at every stop… We might be too late.”  
Her words made his heart sink. All that pain strumming through him always forcing him back to those memories; he knew what Dirth was going through. If he hoped for her to survive until he got there, he would only give her more pain. A swift death would…  
No, he couldn’t bear that, she was all he had left, the last memory of everything that he had lost.  
“There is still a chance”, he growled and left the rotunda.

They paused somewhere in the middle of nowhere to put up camp. Dirthara had managed to gather Cole and Varric, even though they left Skyhold at daybreak, and their journey had been swift and problem-free so far, but he was glad that she had shown forethought on such short notice. The wilds were never predictable, and it showed some maturity that he didn’t know she had. She would make a great Inquisitor after all.  
But go to sleep?  
Not a chance. He was too worked up to sleep, couldn’t find the peace. Would it help him if he did? Probably, but at the same time he knew he would hear the many memories of Dirth, louder and louder for every mile they got closer to Dirthavaren. Her fight, how she still was fighting within herself, hating everything about her. If it didn’t drain her, it would eventually kill her, and he wasn’t sure he dared to face that on his own. He might do something… unthinkable.  
Through the wall of the tent he could hear Varric snore, something he usually wouldn’t notice. A lantern with veilfire had lured a couple of moths into the tent, and they were flapping about making their huge shadows dance in the ceiling. In all its simplicity something beautiful, had he not been about to lose his composition because of fear. Solas turned around on his side and sighed. Dirthara, awake too, staring into the ceiling and biting her bottom lip. She had hardly spoken during this whole trip, it wasn’t like her. Too much on her mind, he could see it in her face, how her eyes seemed to wander off into distance.  
Solas grunted. Guilt for forcing her into this… well, she had said that she would help, that it wasn’t a problem, but he could clearly see how everything about this matter disturbed her.  
Why?  
“You need your sleep, Solas”, Dirthara murmured, and turned around too, facing him.  
Solas shook his head, even though he knew she was right. “I only hear her pain.”  
“Damn it.” Dirthara’s eyes welled up. She blinked and sniffled, dried her tears with the back of her hand. “I am so, so sorry, Solas. If I had known…”  
“How could you have known?” Solas sighed and reached out for her, his heart swelling because of her emotions. To think that she managed to live her life with all that empathy. She shouldn’t cry just yet, there was still time. “Come here. Let’s not let despair take us just yet.”  
Dirthara flinched when his hand touched her shoulder, then she backed away. Sat up, breathing as if she was running out of air. “I need… I need space. Excuse me.” She crawled out of the tent.  
Solas sat up, confused. What was going on?

Dirthara

Sleepless nights, nodding into slumber on horseback, pulled back, anchored, battered. Every wave of guilt ready to crush her, and still she hadn’t told him.  
Dirth. He loved her, of course he was desperate. And what kind of a friend would she be if she didn’t…  
What kind of a friend was she, really? It was all her fault. Just like everything else. Nervous breakdown, too many impressions. Six months of murder, pain, tales of grim ends, blood, violence… It turned her into something vicious, a creature she had tried to push away before. The Dales would see her for what she really was, the reason she had been spit out.  
“Tearing, stretching thin, mind over matter and still too heavy.” Cole rode up by her side, but with his gaze far ahead. The plains seemed emptier than usual, as if life stood still, waiting. “A blind race with time is never won with heavy burdens.”  
“But it is my burden to carry, Cole”, Dirthara murmured and hid a yawn behind her hand. "This was not the doing of that... thing,, it was me, and it was so utterly..." Ignorant. Short sighted. Maybe she was the true monster, maybe there never was a darker side. She was to blame for all of it. Only noon, and she was already tired, her horse covered in sweat and behind her Solas was discussing the nature of the spirit world with Varric. The dwarf didn’t seem remotely as fascinated as Solas, answered in short syllables and grunts. Or maybe that was what she could hear through the muffled stomp of horse’s hooves against the dry grass.  
“Your regret is a harsh punishment for a spell that never worked”, Cole murmured, “It was her choice, not yours.”  
“And what, do you think, made her come?” Dirthara hissed and glared at Cole, “What was her reason?”  
Cole hesitated for a moment before he turned his head and looked Dirthara straight in the eyes. “We are all curious, Inquisitor. We recognize you, thought we knew you, but you have changed. Learned from your mistakes. You used to be so… determined.”  
Dirthara froze and swallowed. Could almost feel how all the blood ran away from her face and left her pale. Moments like this she understood why the others found Cole rather… disturbing.  
“If I had learned from my mistakes, I wouldn’t have lured her to the surface”, she muttered and slowed her horse down to a hasty trot.  
Cole’s words made her think though.  
Recognized her. Was that possible? In that case...  
When a spirit dies - yes, it sounded phlegmatic in her head to even form that thought at this time - where does it go? Is a spirit ever really gone?  
Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout of anguish from behind her.  
“No, no, no, no…” Solas spurred his horse into a frantic gallop and rushed past her in an uncontrolled manner.  
This wasn’t like him.  
The stream up ahead along the path drowned every other sound, and it took a moment or two before Dirthara reacted. Not until she hurried after Solas could she hear it. The laughter of a pride demon making chills run down her spine, the sound of spells exploding… A strong tingle on her skin? The air itself crawling, pinching, reaching out.  
What was this?  
Solas had already jumped off the horse back when she arrived at his side.  
“This is your friend.” More of a statement than a question. Dirthara stared at the demon in front of them, noticed something she recognized around it.  
Pillars. Cold sweat made her shudder, her heart raced. “Solas, I know how to…”  
She was interrupted by a couple of Circle mages coming their way. Frightened, bloodied, exhausted.  
“You’re mages, not bandits, thank the Maker!” A man with a thin moustache took a step forward, a hopeful expression on his face. “You don’t happen to have any lyrium, we’re all out.”  
“Lyrium?” Solas spat. “If I had any, would I be dumb enough to give it to you?”  
“We need to kill the demon…” the mage explained with a gesture towards the summoning circle.  
“You summoned her for fighting off bandits?” Solas’ eyes were burning with a dangerous glow and his hands were clenching and unclenching. “Reckless, ruthless…”  
Dirthara grabbed Solas’ arm. Every muscle hard as rock under his tunic. The tingle, it was from him. All this magic - she never knew he had that much power. “Calm down, let me handle this.”  
“Calm down?” Solas glared at her and broke free from her, “These imbeciles don’t even know what they’re doing!”  
“I assure you, we have studied demons…”  
“Shut up!” Solas and Dirthara said in unison.  
With fear of not knowing what Solas might do next in this agitated mood, Dirthara took a step forward to place herself between him and the other mages. “My friend here is an expert on the subject, I’d rather not hear another word from you.”  
“But we followed the exact instructions, these parts of the wilds are dangerous!” The man who had seemed to take the lead of the group did apparently not understand that he was making matters worse by trying to explain his actions.  
“You are the despicable reason for why Circles exist”, Dirthara replied. “You have two choices: you either help me destroy the pillars or you stay back.”  
“Destroy the pillars? But that’s the only thing keeping it…”  
“Exactly.” Dirthara turned around to meet Solas’ gaze. “The moment one of these pillars are down, she will attack. We need to get rid of all of them before she dies.”  
“Thank you.” For a moment the anger and sadness disappeared from Solas’ face. He offered her a faint smile before they raced into action. Varric and Cole followed shortly after even though they had missed the entire conversation.  
Dirt and sand packed together into hard stone. These pillars were just like her own, but another material. Was this the only difference?  
Of course.  
Spirit magic could make the earth crumble, ice was just ice and nothing more. Sheer force would be enough to make them fall though. Dirthara released a blast of fire towards the first pillar, saw how the iron oxide made the material melt into obsidian on the surface.  
Damn it. This wasn’t enough force. She would need more. With the fire spewing out of her right hand, she stretched her left hand towards the sky. Just like last time she pulled the energy through herself. This time it was easier, she didn’t have to fight as hard, could concentrate instead on pulling the brakes before she was burned out. Biting her jaws tightly together to withstand the burning pain rushing through her, making sure the stream had enough room to not drown her. She broke the connection when the first pillar was a smouldering pool of molten glass and realized when her head was spinning and her breath was hitched that she had forgotten to breathe.  
No time. The next pillar.  
Just then, she was hit in the back with a lash of electricity.  
Every muscle in spasms, forcing her down to the ground, heart pounding, fear, pain, desperation pulling her forward. She had to move away, somehow.  
“Dirthara! No!” She could hear Solas’ voice through her own pulse as she crawled away, “Someone, help her!”  
“No, I’m fine!” she replied, although not sure if anyone would hear her. The next moment she felt the tingle of one of Solas’ glyphs embracing her. “I'm alright!” she repeated, louder this time and got back up on her feet. Legs shaking under her, but she was at least alive. Took a deep breath, raised her left hand to the sky again and found connection. The energy moved smoother through her this time, as if she just needed to get used to it. Still, it was difficult to not be pulled in with the stream rumbling through her; like climbing a waterfall.  
The next pillar melted down into nothing at all, and suddenly the spell was broken. Dirthra didn’t notice at first, the sound of magic made her ears ring, was about to turn around to repeat the process when she noticed that the demon in the middle of the circle had turned into…  
“Dirth”, she murmured with her heart beating fast in her chest and fell down to her knees. From just appearance she couldn’t be sure of course, maybe all spirits of wisdom looked the same - a being of light and shadow - but the vibrations were the same. Her melody, just like the tune of Solas, something calm and melancholic. How this serenity could turn into that powerful danger they’d just encountered was beyond her understanding. Maybe temper followed wisdom? She crawled closer on all four while Solas and Dirth were talking, a sting in her heart when she noticed their familiar tone. Scolded herself for being an egocentric twat as she rose up on her feet with the support from a large rock. Her legs were wobbling like jelly.  
White noise or a vague buzz; she heard Solas and Dirth talk. The elven tongue, but a strange dialect she couldn’t place. Formal, yet fluent, every word still pronounced slightly different from what she was used to, but she understood what they were discussing.  
Dirth was in pain.  
“Let me leave, Solas”, she whispered hoarsely, “please, would you guide me?”  
“I could never do that”, Solas replied, his voice trembling with repressed feelings. “I need you.”  
Dirthara leaned against the rock, staring down at her feet, her chest aching. She could cry.  
Dirth snickered, then coughed. “My life has been long and prosperous. I am happy, and so should you be. You are not alone.”  
“But…” Solas’ voice broke and Dirthara could hear him inhale deeply a couple of times before he continued with a thick voice. “I cannot follow you to the other side, Dirth. I will never see you again.”  
“I know.” Dirth coughed again. “Please, I cannot stand this pain.”  
“If this is your wish…” Solas sighed and that strange vibration of magic filled the air once more.  
Dirthara’s head turned blank with panic. “No!” Without thinking, she reached for the sky once more, pulled from the veil all the power she could muster and pictured in her head the memory she had of Dirth. A woman in green and black, divine light and a strength so old and compelling that it made her lose her breath. Everything else around her disappeared, and everything she saw was Dirth bathing in light. The sound of the ocean crashing against the mountainous shores of the Storm Coast filled her ears and if water could burn - that was the feeling of the magic rushing through her. Both drowning her and scorching her at the same time.  
Follow the stream, don’t work against it. Let it take you.  
She let go.


	23. Of wisdom and bears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this chapter was the last one I had begun writing before I decided to post this story here. I haven't given it the time it might have needed; there are probably both spelling- and grammar errors that I haven't noticed. If you find any, don't hesitate to point it out, I am after all writing mainly to practice my English ;)
> 
> Anyway, it'll take some time before I post the next chapter, since it isn't written yet. I have a plan, I am not planning to leave anything behind, but from now on there will be longer between posts.
> 
> Thanks for reading and thanks for the kudos, they really make a helpful boost :)

Solas

Dirthara’s shout startled Solas, enough to make him lose concentration and spin around. “There is nothing more we can…”  
Solas stopped mid sentence and gasped. A beam of green veil fire, reaching straight up in the air so far that he couldn’t see the other end of it, pouring into Dirthara’s lifted hand. With her other hand she directed the clean white light at Dirth. Jaws tightly shut, eyes, vallaslin and every vein on her neck and hands glowing as if lyrium was pumping through her veins instead of blood. Something ancient, forgotten.  
Time slowed down to a crawl, every expression, every thought written like words in the wind before his eyes. Moments passing, images flashing by of wars he thought he had suppressed into the empty dreams far beyond the veil. The face of every friend he ever lost, when they still wore the blood of the titans on their skin.  
“Dirthara!” he shouted, with his heart pounding hard in his chest. “Stop!”  
“I told you this would happen”, Dirth murmured behind his back, a sadness in her voice that made Solas realize the truth of it all. Dirthara was stubborn, would only stop pouring herself out of her own body when there was nothing left.  
“You never told me…” Solas glanced at Dirth over his shoulder and forgot to breathe for a moment. The white light surrounding her sung with energy. He could feel the spirits around him, almost see the memories shaping Dirth back to health. The memories of whom? Dirthara?  
“I told you that her life is short”, Dirth replied, studying her own hands with fascination. “You will have to stop her before it’s too late. Make the right choice.”  
“Too late?!” Solas returned his gaze to Dirthara. She held herself up by leaning against a rock, and the sheer force of the energy rushing through her was pressing her down towards the ground. Determined, furrowed brows over eyes pinned on Dirth. Always so stubborn.  
Make the right choice?  
“You mean…?” Solas pulse kept banging in his ears as Dirth’s words became clear. The right choice? Was there ever a right choice? He would need time to calculate… “Don’t make me choose!”  
“She will die, within moments.” Dirth stated this as calmly as if she had been discussing sewing patterns. “If you wait, she will choose for you.”  
His heart wanted one thing, but his brain something else. Dirthara was mortal, Dirth would stay forever. But Dirthara was what made this world sane... He was torn, he loved them both; the last trace of his history and the pale shimmer of a dream he wished to have but couldn’t keep.  
The mark. It had been his reason before. He needed Dirthara alive, for more reasons than his own. This broken world was but a shadow of its former self, and Dirthara could make that change.  
“Forgive me!” Solas felt the tears burn hot behind his eyelids as he rushed forward. Needed to break Dirthara’s connection, it was the only way to save her; tackled her to the ground and landed on top of her with a grunt. It was enough to break the bond, but when he looked down in her face, he realized that he’d hesitated for too long.  
Heart beating hard in his chest, darkness growing inside, blood, death, pain, pulling at his every fiber. Like the first time he had seen her, a petite frame, that innocence that at the beginning had him think that she was a child. He didn’t notice how his tears started running down his cheeks, didn’t notice the cries that left his mouth - he felt them but for some reason he thought they belonged to someone else. Slowly, he knelt on the ground and lifted her up in his lap. When he held her close, he could still feel her warmth.  
“Solas.”  
He had once said that he couldn’t handle the thought of losing her. Those words felt distant, meaningless compared to the emptiness that filled him now. He blamed himself, but the claws of guilt ripping him to pieces could never cut that deep, never reached to the void of his soul. The loss of her was larger than his remorse.  
Why did he ever let her slip away? This was his fault. Everything was...  
He couldn’t follow, he couldn’t...  
And Dirth had told him…  
“Solas.”  
A hand on his shoulder.  
“Drowning in a memory of spices, lillies, melting ice. Every snowflake, every wind with burning leaves.” Solas could hear Cole’s voice echo through his head, mimicking every image that rushed through his mind, but it was Varric that stood beside him.  
“One of two equal parts of a whole”, Cole continued. Those thoughts that Solas had pressed down for so long; he wasn’t supposed to find that here, now.  
“Wait.” Cole again. A gasp and a laugh. “Orlesian poetry!”  
“Not now, Cole.” Varric’s voice not much more than a whisper. “Solas? We need to…” A sigh, the hand tapping his shoulder gently. “Yeah.”  
“The summer is a wind, a breeze, a lullaby to carry dreams of wonder. And every tune, through leaves and trees, is strumming many million strings of yonder”, Cole murmured, and Solas looked up. He could hardly see the shape of the boy through his tears.  
“That’s…” Her cadence. Solas swallowed, didn’t dare to hope even for a second. Even the words; that was her. Or, just the memory of her.  
“Yes, she’s still here”, Cole murmured.  
Varric’s hand on his shoulder went from consolidating to firm. “Solas, wait here. There’s a Dalish camp just on the other side of this hill, we’ll take her there. Just wait, we'll be back for you in a moment.”  
“I’ll help.” Solas wiped his face with one hand. If there was even a slightest glimmer of hope…  
“No. You’re not in the right state of mind.” Varric sighed. “We don’t want you to do the same mistake as she did, now do we?”  
“I’m not…” Solas took a deep breath and cleared his throat. He didn’t like the sound of his own voice; shrill, desperate, torn to shreds by tears. Maybe Varric had a point, but Solas didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Not again.  
“The burden isn’t yours to carry”, Cole said, then he snickered and shook his head. “Both burdened, burnt by bitter grief.”  
“Yes, yes, we all have regrets”, Varric muttered. “Come on now, kid, we need to get the… Kid to a healer. Well, shit, I need a new nickname for our little Herald.”  
“Scrap?” Cole suggested calmly as he and Varric lifted Dirthara out of Solas lap.  
“Heheh. Scrap. Sure, that’ll work.”

As soon as Varric and Cole had left, Solas remembered Dirth. She sat by the stream, studying her hands with a confused expression. If a spirit could show that expression without thought; it was a deliberate demonstration. Solas knew that Dirth had seen this coming, calculated every reality to see the glimpse of a not so certain future, but what was it that had her thrown off balance? He stood up on shaky legs and walked the few steps there was between them. She was still a being of light and shadow, but somewhat more physical than before. As if…  
Oh, no.  
“My skin is tingling”, Dirth murmured, “This is not who I am.”  
“This is how it feels to be real”, Solas replied as he kneeled beside her. He had gone through this too, once. “Your life here will be short and full of misery.”  
“I know.” Dirth looked up from her hands and gave Solas a weak smile. “Please, Solas, guide me home.”  
Solas sighed. “You’ll have to die to leave this life. I’ll meditate on your old sites, but you will not remember my old patterns.”  
Dirth shook her head and snickered. “Every path wears traces of you, Solas.”  
Solas looked away. She wouldn’t remember him the way she used to. That was the difference. Dirth had already changed her rhythm, her former realms would never be the same.

Dirthara

Falling, falling, falling, but up. Everything a black void, not a trace of a memory. Too old, too far, if she kept falling, where would she end up? Rocks, floating in mid air, a green hue - something left forgotten on purpose? If she stayed too long she would wake up whatever was lurking in the mists. Something ancient, hidden beyond layers upon layers of images, only partially shown. A piece of a puzzle here, another there and in between more nothing.  
And then she heard His jambs, His troches, but it wasn’t His voice. It sounded gravelly and old, like the sound of stones grinding together.  
“We once were slaves, but not aware, she gave us will and offered dreams. We dreamt of freedom, drank the revelations. Our Mountain Father watched in fear, we grew out of the rock itself, but lately it seems like he has forgotten.”  
The voice was but an echo through the empty space, however Dirthara had heard it clearly, as if it had been meant for her.  
“Mountain Father?” she repeated slowly. This made her curious, made her want to know more. And as if just her thought could steer her, she stopped falling, found another path and followed it. The voice was gone though, that sound of rocks grinding, there was nothing but whispered words she didn’t understand. Hard syllables, rough as if the sentences never were meant to be spoken.  
“I must have lost the memory”, she whispered to herself.  
That was when His cadence returned, because it wasn’t much more than that - at least not anything else that she recognized. It was as if this was a reflected melody from a time before memories; the words sounded right, but the voice was all wrong. “I searched for answers everywhere, a never sated thirst for more, the songs I sang would build the world around me.”  
The words left an echo in the emptiness that followed, and Dirthara didn’t know where to continue. She had stopped falling, was floating mid air somewhere in the middle of nowhere. She was still much deeper than she’d ever been before, but figured that she somehow was closer to the surface. It didn’t feel as heavy or neglected, and there was a strange sound reverberating through the green hue.  
A humming melody; repetitive, almost hypnotic. And there, further up - or down - was a faint light. She only needed to think of it to move towards it.  
“Because I learned the secret songs, and every tune that harmonized, I followed dreams and that’s where Purpose found me”, the light hummed. Still, that voice - it felt all wrong in here, as if it reality belonged somewhere else.  
That’s when something changed. A clearer voice was filling in, but something in the phrases made her shiver.  
“Then Purpose left, I was alone. Derisive spirits gnawing at my brittle limbs; I tore my face off screaming. The songs I sing are purer now, my melodies are intricate, but they did never care for music, really.”  
“How sad”, Dirthara whispered, afraid to disturb something in the dark. The little ball of light faded away, and again, there was nothing. The humming melody was louder now, a beat to it that made her think of a machinery. Everything sang the same - was this what that memory had meant with the secret songs? Another dreamer perhaps, someone who had been down here a long time ago.  
“I am the first”, another voice whispered, “to find the pride in wisdom and I am alone.”  
Dirthara looked around to find the source of those words, but couldn’t find anything.  
“Desire for a purpose is a fever”, another memory continued. It slowly turned into a chanting choir, but still no balls of light or anything as far as she could see.  
“I knew it all, and purpose was a fever.” The chants grew stronger and stronger, but she couldn’t close it out; it was in her head, thrumming on the inside of her skull. Dirthara screamed.  
“I kept my words, and fever turned desire.”  
She needed to leave - anywhere, couldn’t stay - somewhere silent, somewhere far away from here.

Dirthara’s thoughts were jambled and her desperate journey became a chaotic flight, back and forth, she almost crashed into a floating rock, flew through a mist of green that stuck on her skin as if it wanted to keep her. A hunger, that was what she felt - or maybe it was fear itself - feeding off of her despair.  
And as she was about to give in, let it take her, she heard something new. A softer speech, a cadence that she knew like the back of her hand. The words though. She couldn’t fully recall them, but was almost certain that she had heard them before.  
“The transient beauty of the rose, the lingering scent a memory of desire to keep at heart when winter snows, remind you of how darkness will transpire.”  
That poetry. Dirth had said those words, Dirthara had thought that it was something Cassandra would like. It wasn’t until now that she realized why Dirth had chosen those specific phrases. This was Dirthara’s melody, and it sang with her, filled every little crack of her shattered soul. Or maybe it devoured her; a soothing euphoria which forced every fibre of her to sing, laugh, dance. This was how Solas had heard her through the snow. This was who she really was. Warm summer evenings, mist rising between the trees, birds, the scent of honeysuckle.  
“The transient beauty of the rose…” The deep voice surrounded her, like a coat of fur against the cold.  
“Dirth?” she whispered.  
“That is my passion”, someone answered, and Dirthara sighed from relief.  
“I am not the Dirth you’re referring to, though”, someone continued gently. “They are but a few, they used to be many.” A green and purple shape of light and shadow materialized in front of her, grew larger and larger until it had taken the shape of a massive bear. “You can call me Hamin.”  
“Oh.” Dirthara paused for a moment and crossed her arms. Well, figuratively speaking - right now, she didn’t have arms, she was more something similar to a little flame of fire.  
“Wait a moment.” She had to look up to give the bear a quizzical glance. “If you’re not Dirth, how do you know of me?”  
So strange. A bear… A bear… Why was she feeling like sh should know this? Dirthamen loved bears, because he kept his secrets. She knew that story like the back of her hand, but there was something else, something she couldn’t quite grasp.  
“I heard of the songs, never caught them before”, the spirit in front of her stated nonchalantly. If a spirit could do anything in that manner; Dirthara wasn’t very familiar with them yet. Bears though, she had seen them in the forests around her camp. This wasn’t how a bear usually reacted. Were spirits just like people, even if they looked like bears?  
“So, the songs you heard; are you sure they’re mine?” Dirthara sat down in the middle of the air, legs crossed and elbows resting on her knees. She realized that she had to concentrate really hard to materialize fully enough to be able to see her own limbs.  
The spirit mirrored her stance, but since his body was much longer than his legs, it looked rather strange.  
“You are something new, something I’d like to know”, Hamin stated calmly, as if sitting around like this, talking to some dreamer who had managed to get lost in the Fade was something he did every day. He stared at her for a moment before he opened his large mouth to yawn.  
Hamin. Bear.  
Hamin was an elven word. An ancient dialect, that was why she hadn’t connected the dots earlier. Hamin ment rest.  
A resting bear, at the foot of the mountain. Sigfrost, the Avvar guardian of wisdom. He had been so large, that Korth had mistaken him for a huge rock.  
“So, you are not wisdom, but its guardian?” Dirthara dared to ask, excitement and expectation making her stomach feel as if it was full of butterflies. If this was true, some other things would make sense too; not only Dirthamen’s love for bears. Oh, how her father would have loved this!  
Hamin grunted and scratched himself behind one of the large ears. “She stole my words and I was left forgotten.”  
Dirthara just furrowed her brows and studied the bear with confusion. Not at all what she had expected him to answer, and it didn’t make any sense at all.  
Unless...  
“Never mind an old bear’s rambling.” Hamin snickered and looked away. “I never shared another secret, thus I am a guardian of sorts.”  
“A guardian of sorts”, Dirthara repeated slowly. “I might be in need of your help, Hamin.”  
“Hmm…” The bear yawned again, then licked his mouth. “Help. What kind of help?” He didn’t sound too excited.  
“Well…” Dirthara paused to form her sentences right. The bear was curious and wanted to know more about her. She needed ‘a guardian of sorts’ to find her way back to the surface. This could benefit them both. “I am, in all honesty, a bit lost. Would you perhaps accompany me back to the surface?”  
Hamin grunted. He didn’t look particularly pleased, but how was Dirthara to know what a pleased bear - or spirit for that matter - looked?  
“That is a long walk”, the bear continued and frowned. "You belong to the Void, just think yourself out of existance."  
“A long walk would provide us with a long talk”, Dirthara pointed out, hoping that this could be enough to capture his interest. Thinking herself out of existance... that was not something she even believed that she could do.  
“Hmm…” The bear stood up slowly on all fours and nodded with its large head. “It’s a deal, if you promise to scratch my back before we part ways.”  
To this, Dirthara almost laughed. A spirit, wanting her to scratch its back? She remembered how the bears back home used to rub their backs against trees. There was no trees in the Fade, the poor thing.  
“Of course I’ll scratch your back”, she said.


	24. Of golden eyes

Solas

The walk up the mountain to Skyhold never felt longer, and the week it had taken him to travel back home felt like an eternity. Not because he was exhausted from the trip - Solas had traveled further than this on foot before and usually enjoyed all the sights on the road - but because he knew She would be there. In his sleep he had heard her song, but not because She had been close. It had been sung in as many different ways as there were spirits, but She was nowhere to be found. Solas doubted that the absence was due to her being awake and the thought had him worried. Enough so to find it difficult to concentrate on his meditation in the Fade. He never managed to summon a strong enough memory of Dirth to make her fully appear; the moment there was a seed large enough for something to grow in her realms, he let her go, returned to the edge and began his search for Dirthara.  
The spirits reenacting the scenes gave him too many different answers for him to follow any of the traces. According to the fiery winds of Autumn she was but a memory, lost like the vague scents of summer when the trees dropped their last leaves. The flowers of Spring were more optimistic, said she had been spotted on the shores of the evening sun. When Solas went there, the waves only told him of all the treasures lost in the deep. Everywhere, her melody filled him with a longing that made him understand that he was lost. He couldn’t ignore or fight it anymore; he had to either keep on falling or leave.  
There was, however, a small chance that he could be wrong. The variables, his calculations; they were so far fetched. Logically, Dirthara would succumb to a hunger for more, and yet she had shown a conscience that he never thought she would have. If something got in the way of her purpose, she worked around it instead of marching through without remorse. Her spirit would have been her weakness, was it not for her intellect.  
It was already afternoon on the seventh day of his travels when he reached the gates of Skyhold. He hardly offered the soldiers more than a nod as he passed their encampment, just waved to the guards outside the gates as he walked through the gates and didn’t slow his pace until he reached the yard. It felt like a century had passed, but here, time seemed to have stopped. Injured were treated with care by the healers, recruits exercised under the scrutinous eye of Cullen and his band of former templars. Their Herald, the Inquisitor was injured and nothing had changed.  
Maybe they hadn’t returned yet?  
It was Varric’s exclamation, just a moment later, that had him start running.  
“Where on Thedas have you been?” The dwarf stood at the top of the stairs to the entrance of the main building, and his voice left an echo over the yard. Everything else came to a silent halt as all eyes turned towards Solas.  
Solas’ feet carried him swiftly from the lower yard and up the fleet of stairs towards the open doors. He vaguely recollected the feeling of being home, felt the magic of the place tingling on his skin as if it was welcoming him, before he turned all his focus towards the dwarf.  
”Master Tethras”, Solas murmured as he stopped, just in front of him. “I am sorry for leaving the party so abruptly in the…”  
“Your sorries doesn’t cut it, Solas”, Varric grumbled and crossed his arms over his chest. “The Kid didn’t seem to think that your sudden disappearance was particularly strange, but you had me worried sick!”  
“The Kid?” Solas stomach made a flip. “So she’s alright?”  
“Who?” Varric furrowed his brows, then shook his head with a grunt. “Cole, I mean Cole. He said something cryptical about resting in the realm of wisdom or some crap like that.”  
“Yes, but what about…?” Solas swallowed, didn’t even dare to utter her name. What if she was gone?  
“Dirthara. The one you were crying over only moments before you disappeared on us. The one we all thought had left us…” Varric glared at him before he looked away with a sigh. “By Andraste’s beard, I don’t get you, Solas.”  
“Andraste didn’t have a beard”, Solas murmured in reply and looked down at his feet. “Varric, I was scared and I ran. Fear is still running in my wake, chasing my tail.”  
The dwarf just frowned. “What do you have to be afraid of?”  
“I…” Solas fell silent, didn’t know what to answer. His head felt like a kaleidoscope full of jumbled words where none of them could cooperate to form a coherent sentence.  
“Please, spare me the explanations.” Varric hissed and turned around to leave.  
Solas grabbed his shoulder in an act of desperation. “I need your help.”  
“What?” Varric stopped, but didn’t even offer him another glance.  
Yes, with what? Why was it so important that Varric understood his dilemma? What difference would it make? Solas sighed. “Could we discuss this somewhere more private?”  
The dwarf hesitated before he nodded. “Well then. Is the old library in the basement private enough for you?”  
Hm. Well, as long as that ‘Vint’ wasn’t there; the only other person besides himself that found it intriguing enough to spend time with all those old tomes.  
“Have the new books from Tevinter arrived?” Solas wanted to know.  
Varric snorted. “You shouldn’t worry about Dorian, alright?”

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Varric threw himself into the dusty old armchair in the room while Solas crouched down on the floor. On their way down to the basement he tried to figure out what to say, but there was still nothing. Solas sighed and looked down at his hands that were fidgeting with a loose thread in the seam at the end of the left arm of his tunic.  
“I don’t know”, was his honest reply.  
Varric uttered a rather unmentionable line of curses and smacked his palm against his face. “Oh, you elves. I’m starting to think Sera is right, you know.”  
Solas lifted his hands to his face and grunted. “Yes, of course everybody has to have an opinion about how Dirthara and I deal with this…”  
“What is there to argue about?” Varric sounded quite frustrated. “There is chemistry, was from the very start. What is the problem?”  
“I’m old enough to be her…” Solas sighed. To be honest, he was old enough to be a distant ancestor - what if he was?  
“So it is the age gap. You find her naïve?” Varric’s statement was frank, and it really put it all in perspective.  
Solas lifted his head and shook it frantically. “She is very intelligent, Varric. You know this as well as I do. What troubles me is that she eventually will see sense...”  
And leave him, let him rot away alone.  
Varric shrugged. “Nothing is inevitable.”  
“Well, this was a nice talk.” Solas stood up from the floor and glared at the dwarf. “Thank you, I really needed to hear that.”  
“But it is the truth. Life is too short. If you want to walk through life on egg shells, by all means, but you will regret it for the rest of your days. And, if Dirthara is as clever as you say, wouldn’t she make wise decisions on her own?”  
“I wouldn’t be the wisest choice”, Solas stated with a loud voice that even surprised himself. He paused and met Varric’s glance. “She is the Inquisitor, a hero of our time, and who am I?” Solas spread his arms and looked down at his own appearance. “Some apostate, in a desperate need of a bath, dressed in rags.”  
“Paint stained rags, no less.” Varric made a gesture towards Solas.  
“That is exactly my point.” Solas turned around to leave.  
“So you are intimidated by her.” Varric snickered behind his back. “Well, aren’t we all.”  
“No, I’m afraid of my own feelings”, Solas replied quietly and started to walk towards the door. “They overwhelm me.”  
Solas could hear Varric’s feet hit the floor when he jumped down from the chair. “I get it, Chuckles. Scraps puts herself in danger every day, and we’ve already lost her twice.” Solas wasn’t going to tell him how many times beyond that and in how many different realities he had lost her in his dreams. She was just supposed to be an expandable pawn, but instead she had turned into an unhealthy obsession.  
Varric grabbed his arm and spun him around. A seriousness seldom seen in his face gave the few last words he had to say more impact. “You should talk to her.”  
Solas hesitated, then nodded. It was the only straight thing to do. “Is she…?”  
“Alive, but unconscious.” Varric looked down at his feet. “Cole says she’s in good hands though… at least that’s what I think he says.”

A bath and a change of clothes later (the new tunics that Dagna had had made for him were soft and wore enchantments so strong that the fibres of the very fabric was humming), he rushed up the stairs towards Dirthara’s chambers. A servant, a young elven girl without a vallaslin, looked up when he reached the room. She lowered her gaze quickly, blushed and stood up from the chair by Dirthara’s bed when she saw him.  
“Master Solas…” A quick curtsey and she left the room quietly.  
The windows were open and the afternoon sun was slowly setting into evening. The room bathed in orange and in the bed Dirthara rested peacefully with her hair spread out over the pillows. Solas realized that he had missed these silent moments in her presence. It felt somehow easier to watch her when she slept; he could study every inch of her face without being judged for it. He felt like a creep doing so, but when else did he find the opportunity to just look at her? He remembered that he didn’t think much of her appearance once, but that had somehow changed. Everything that was her shone through and made her the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. As he sat down at the edge of her bed, his eyes followed the curves of her lips and remembered the taste, the scents, how warm and soft they had been in comparison to her cold nose tip. It had been snowing; his element. The Frostbacks had always been inspiring, close to both worlds, but in reality the cold and darkness was much older than that. Just like Dirthara’s fire was a memory of a time before Elgar’nan, when time wasn’t measured in days or nights.  
Varric was right, he needed to talk to her. Explain everything. He was just so afraid of the pain. It had crushed him before.  
Solas sighed and lied down on top of the comforter beside her. If he just rested here for a while, it would be enough for him to calm down and find a point of focus. It would be easier to talk to her, once he had his mind collected and thoughts straightened out. In all honesty, he had felt love before, it could be solved.  
...Well, love, but nothing like this.The passion between two lovers was one thing, the fraternal love for family was something else, but this… What he felt for Dirthara was something of both, and it devoured him whole, filled his entire being. If she died or left him, he now knew what it would turn him into, and losing control was not an option.  
So, if he just rested here for a while…

Dirthara

“Hmm, that backrub isn’t too far off now”, Hamin gruffed and smiled. “Can you feel how the Fade feels lighter, how the songs are sung differently?”  
Dirthara nodded. “I sense it. Have you ever left your realm just to listen?  
The bear shook his large head and kept walking. “Not in a thousand years.”  
“That is a very long time”, Dirthara stated, just moments before she realized that time was not really the same thing in the Fade. Sure, memories seemed to pack on top of eachother, but other than that there wasn’t really anything linear to show the passing of time.  
Which, logically, would make her company a very old memory. She couldn’t help but wonder how he could stay this strong after all these years. How long had he been hiding in the deep?  
A very old memory, still being strongly remembered. Maybe he was the actual bear at the feet of the Mountain Father’s throne.  
Did every god really exist as a memory? If she went deeper into the Fade than she had done this time, would she find them? They were after all remembered, maybe they had their own realms, just like Dirth and Hamin?  
Hamin stopped abruptly and turned his head, as if she had been speaking aloud. Could he hear her thoughts?  
“You are not what I expected”, he muttered, but he didn’t seem disappointed. “Curious, not as harsh…” He fell silent and looked around, ears pointed and darting. Dirthara stopped and listened too. Something had startled the spirit, something that somehow didn’t belong. They were close to the edge, the memories she saw were not too distant. When she concentrated, she could actually hear everything sing. The wind whispering of death through the leaves in the scene in front of them, a little Alamari girl talking to a woman with yellow eyes of a strange light in the forest, a song - the girl sang his song and he listened. He woke up from his slumber, saddened. It felt vaguely familiar, and yet she couldn’t recall ever hearing this story before.  
“What is it?” Dirthara whispered, and had a quick look around her. “What are we listening for?”  
“We should leave”, the bear replied hastily. “The girl with the golden eyes will die when the Conductor of the Choir of Silence roars. Her sister will follow her into the forest singing, and by pure chance the song she sings is his. Stay quiet. Your songs are too similar, he might get confused.”  
Dirthara gasped and felt a chill run down her spine. “Who?”  
The bear looked at her over his shoulder and grinned. “Dumat.”  
“Hamin, are you saying that Dumat is…” Dirthara swallowed, wasn’t sure if she dared to ask that question. Dumat was a spirit?  
“Yes.” The bear started moving again, much faster now. “The tainted blood of the titans turned him from his truth and he spoke. Through the girl with the golden eyes he was born anew, pure and bright. Dumat the wise, the dragon of silence.”  
Dirthara hurried after the bear, afraid of what might happen if she was left behind. “How could I confuse a dragon of silence?”  
“Your songs harmonize”, the bear replied.  
“This is ridiculous”, Dirthara muttered, mainly to keep herself calm. “How could anything harmonize with silence?”  
Hamin grunted and tilted his ears backwards. “Music depends on silence, to distinguish other periods of sound; to allow dynamics, melodies, and rhythms. When everything sang the same, silence was the truth that made the difference, a barrier between chaos and order.”  
“So, in theory, Dumat didn’t have a song of his own, he had a cadence.” Dirthara stated. That was actually not too strange, come to think of it. In all honesty, the rhythms was what she heard in everything; rather than songs. Of course, she was but a novice, not yet trained to hear every tune. Solas could hear everything whisper, or at least that was how he had described it. Maybe he never went to that part of the Fade where the memories were screaming. Dirthara shuddered. Old pain. Shadows that wasn’t fully forgotten but at least ignored. Like the darkness behind a door that should stay shut.  
“In theory, that was what made our realms meet”, Hamin replied and slowed down to a comfortable stroll. “Incidentally, we’re walking at the edge of the space where they collided, and you should quite soon be able to hear memories of your own.”  
Dirthara stopped. “Hamin.”  
The bear turned around and looked at her. “Yes, friend.”  
“This has been an interesting journey and I’m sad that I have to leave you.” Dirthara reached up to gently touch the bear’s fur. “I promised you a back scratch, but it doesn’t seem fair. You’ve given me so much to ponder, and yet I never offered any wisdom in return.”  
“I have gathered plenty”, Hamin gruffed and smiled to her in a way only a spirit bear could. “Oh, and if you remember. Tell the slow arrow that the bear still listens.”  
Dirthara furrowed her brows. Slow Arrow? Like in that old Dalish tale of Fen’Harel?

She opened her eyes slowly to the sound of blackbirds singing their hymn to the rising sun. The air in her room was cool, the scent of dew fresh in her nose and she knew she was home. The veil felt different here, the magic deeper and more rooted. Skyhold. Dirthara sighed and smiled to herself before she turned around in her bed. The smile slowly faded as her eyes focused on the face of the sleeping man beside her. The room was still dark, dawn had not yet reached over the Frostbacks, but she could still make out his features behind the veils of shadows.  
Solas.  
Butterflies made her stomach flip, nerves and electricity. She was startled at first, but when she noticed that he was asleep, she relaxed. He looked so peaceful when sleeping; every mark of worry in his forehead and around his eyes were straightened out; eyelashes that were remarkably long. Not that it looked strange, just not something she noticed when he was awake. Every breath as light as a feather, calm as always but in his sleep almost serene.  
Why hadn’t she heard him in her dream? He must have dived deep into the Fade…  
Dirthara gasped when she remembered a shape of green and purple, a creature of light and shadow.  
Dirth.  
She sat up hastily, but had to close her eyes when her head began to spin and her vision went black.  
Dirth.  
Of course he was in her realms, Dirthara just hoped that the spirit had survived. It would make her conscience a lot lighter. At the same time, a very small part of her wished that spirit gone. For that feeling alone, her guilt felt like a greasy coat she couldn’t take off. The worst part was that she actually liked Dirth even though she only had the pleasure of meeting with her twice, briefly.  
Well, liked would maybe be too much, but Dirthara definitely admired her, and if Solas considered Dirth a friend, she must be an extraordinary character.  
Oh, the jealousy; biting, gnawing, tearing her to shreds. She was being stupid and she knew it.  
She opened her eyes again with a shivering sigh and turned her head to look at his face. He had said it once, that everything was easier in the Fade. He was more at home there, where things didn’t change so abruptly, than in this chaotic world. Of course he’d prefer…  
Solas muttered something in his sleep and furrowed his eyebrows.


	25. Hard in Skyhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty litterature, coming through. And feel free to critisize; I'm rather new to this kind of writing and could use some pointers.

Solas

Solas could have sworn that he only closed his eyes for a moment - he wasn’t even that tired - but he found himself back in the Fade. All eyes focused, sniffing the air, something familiar making every hair on his body stand. The whispers of a bear from the deep together with a wisp of fire, the cadence of a passion just a brief hint.  
How deep had she gone? What did she know? The bear was not someone he trusted, not anymore. When he opened his eyes again, she was awake, half sitting in the bed, resting against the pillows. Pale, weak, drained. She was looking at him, but quickly turned her face when he noticed. He sat up too, felt weird for lying on his side in her bed without a good reason. Was this inappropriate? Should he have waited until she woke up?  
“Solas”, Dirthara whispered hoarsely, a memory of what a smile was supposed to be swiftly brushed over her face. It never reached her eyes.  
The bear, he must have told her something, she was acting strange. Or maybe he had been right assuming that this was beyond the rules of convenance. Solas cleared his throat.  
“Inquisitor…” Fenedhis, too formal. He started anew:  
“I was… Do you have a moment?”   
Ah. What a stupid question; she was sitting beside him in bed, not well enough to…  
Dirthara’s smile grew slightly wider, then she snorted. “Do I look busy to you?”  
“Hm, yes, quite… Well.” Solas stood up from the bed and crossed his arms over his chest, in an attempt to contain himself. His heart was pounding hard, every breath felt shallow; he never thought this would be so difficult. Why? He was just going to talk, ask some questions. This was beyond ridiculous, he was a grown man, and here he was acting like a blushing girl at her first ball.  
“What were you like? Before the anchor? The mark. The one on your hand…”  
...Well obviously. This was frustrating. Why did she have this effect on him? He began pacing, back and forth along the footboard of her bed, then sighed and continued.  
“Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your...” Solas paused, and turned to look at her. She was studying the mark in her hand with a quizzical look on her face.  
“Your spirit?” he added with a softer voice. Her spirit, this strong will that could force the very skies to...  
Dirthara looked up. Oh, no. She knew. Hamin, that traitorous bear, he must have talked…  
“Solas, what is this questioning about?” Dirthara’s voice was raspy and she studied him curiously. “Of course it has affected me, it has forced me into becoming a hero I was never meant to be.”  
Solas could almost feel how his hopes fell down to his feet. “Oh.”  
But this was a good thing. He would be able to move on; she was after all just a mirroring image. It would be better, for both of them.  
But when Dirthara continued to speak, he didn’t know what to think anymore:  
“I believe that my mind, morals and…” Dirthara paused and looked back at her hand where the mark was glowing with that green flame of veil fire. “I was brought up to do everything I can to help a greater cause, Solas. I accepted my fate, even though it wasn’t my choice.”  
“So...“ Solas furrowed his brows. “You are saying that the path you have chosen since the mark found you…”  
Dirthara grunted and interrupted him.  
“When I was a child, the path was what laid before me. I knew what to expect and I knew what was expected of me; could plan ahead.” Dirthara looked up and met Solas’ glance and when she continued to speak she did so with a softer voice, as if she needed him to understand something:   
“This is not just a path. This mark dropped me in the middle of a heavily trafficked street with several blocks and corners in all directions. I need to make the right choice at every turn, or the consequences are dire. I’ve done so many things that I regret and all I want is to make it right. Make the good weigh up for the bad and hope that I can keep it in balance. In all honesty, I don’t know if I have changed. Do you think I would have noticed? Why do you ask?”  
Solas felt his heart skip a beat. If this really was who she was, her spirit had changed. Not by the mark; something else. Her mind was tangible but steady, intertwined and not conquered by a will stronger than her conscience. Humbled? Yes, maybe. She was wiser, much wiser than he remembered.  
“You are not what I had expected”, Solas breathed.  
Dirthara snickered, but it wasn’t a sound of happiness. She looked tired and worn out. “You make it sound like it’s something bad.”  
“No, no, no.” Solas hurried around the bed and sat down at the edge beside her. He grabbed one of her hands and cupped in both of his. Rather awkwardly. In his head it had seemed honest and spontaneous, but in reality it turned out stilted and weird. He cleared his throat, but kept her hand in his. “It’s just… If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours… Have I misjudged them?”  
Dirthara’s hand was shivering in his palm. Her cold fingers slowly getting warmer against his skin - or maybe it was the other way around.  
“Solas…” Dirthara leaned forward and looked him straight in the eyes. “Why do you have to complicate things? I am who I am. We all take shape from our experiences differently, but in the end we are who we always were.”  
He wondered if she knew how right she really was.  
“And yet again you show a subtlety in your actions…” Solas swallowed, he knew all too well where he was going, but how could he explain this to her? “Dirthara, you show a wisdom in your every action that goes against everything I know of your people.”  
And her spirit. In a former life, it had been impulsive, insatiable, destructive...  
Dirthara blushed and looked away. “Solas, I…” She inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I am not perfect. I am truly sorry to disappoint.”  
If she understood how much those few words meant, she might have realized the difference she made. The ancient memories of the Fade was not as forgiving, and he hoped that she’d never have to carry that on her shoulders, hoped that she never would remember - like he did.  
“It’s… It’s not disappointing, it’s…” Solas sighed and shook his head. How to phrase this right? What would she turn into if he told her everything? Would she remember and return to her old self?  
“Most people are predictable, but you continue to surprise me”, he continued.  
“You’ve said that before”, Dirthara murmured. “You said that it scared you.”  
“I never…” Solas furrowed his brows. He hadn’t, had he?  
“Yes you did. At the camp by the lake, outside Redcliffe.” The corners of Dirthara’s mouth tilted upwards. “You said that people either loved or feared their image of the Herald.”  
“Oh.” The memory returned to him. It was that night when… No, he didn’t want to think of Dorian right now. The bastard was a Vint, and as all other Vints he didn’t know how to respect other cultures.  
“Solas?” Dirthara called him back from his thoughts. “You look bothered, what’s wrong?”  
“Nothing. At least, nothing of importance.” Not anymore. She wasn’t returning to her camp, wasn’t going to marry some mage with a lineage reaching back to an ancient and long forgotten aristocracy; her heritage, just as her purity, wasn’t relevant any longer. “I just…”  
He leaned a little bit closer, could hear his pulse in his ears and every shallow breath in his throat felt like fire. Mouth dry, tongue like covered in sand, he wanted to swallow to ease the fire inside.  
“Yes?” Dirthara tilted her head and met his gaze. Her lips slightly parted, that look in her eyes that made him want to drown, to forget, to be swallowed whole and never surface again. The scent of spices, expensive and exotic, carried by the winds over the vast seas and whispering through fields of lilies. Her sheets, the scent came from her sheets. Everything around her changed as she passed, her entire being was like pigment dropped on a wet paper.  
“I have not forgotten the kiss.” Solas hardly recognized his own voice and could feel how the tips of his ears grew warmer.  
Dirthara smiled, a simple expression that had him completely weakened. “Good, neither have I.”  
He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. This was toxic, he knew it was, he shouldn’t even be here. “I… I should go.”  
“Solas.” Dirthara’s voice was but a whisper, and then she touched him, really intentionally touched him. Her hands on his cheeks; one warm and one cold; and he remembered vividly the last time she did that; remembered every little snowflake that had fallen around him that day in the Fade. He sighed and opened his eyes.  
“It would be kinder in the long run”, he whispered, but instead of doing the right thing and back away, he moved even closer. Rested his weight on one hand just by her shoulder, lifted the other to lightly caress her face. His calloused fingertips brushed over her skin; soft and smooth like silk. Solas was almost afraid that he might leave marks on her.  
“I can’t stand the thought of losing you”, he hummed as his thumb followed the blue lines of her vallaslin over her bottom lip. Her tattoo almost looked like they had done in the old days, the same blue tint, but without the glow. The irony, that she belonged to Dirthamen; oh, the irony. Not that it mattered anymore. “I am not the right man for you, Dirthara.”  
“Let me be the judge of that”, she murmured and lifted her chin.  
That serious look on her face; determined, a fire in her that he knew would burn her before she gave anything up. How could he resist her?  
Yes, let her be the judge of that, let her! She’s an intelligent woman; you’ve said so yourself. An euphoric blabber of feelings telling him to let go, just fall, to be free for once; let go of all restraints.  
“Oh, bloody hell, I am going to regret this”, he whispered, mainly to himself, as he pulled her closer and found her lips. Hungrily; devouring her like the starved carnivore he was; his pulse thrumming in every joint, his ears, his ..ahem… private parts. Dirthara tasted of sleep, Solas assumed that he did too; but she answered as if it didn’t matter.  
“Regret nothing”, Dirthara hummed, her words muffled by his ravenous lips. And he realized that she wanted this as badly as he did: when her arms trailed their way around his neck and pulled him closer, so forcefully that he lost his balance and tumbled over her; when she snickered and teasingly tugged his lip between her teeth; when one of Dirthara’s legs suddenly had found its way out of her layers of sheets, comforters and blankets and was wrapped around Solas’ hip and when a silent moan slipped out of her mouth as his hand found her bare thigh and followed the muscles up to a firm buttock.  
“You’re so soft”, he breathed and nipped her upper lip between his. “Like the petals of a flower.” And his own words startled him, reminded him of what action had caused him to say such a thing.  
What was he doing? This was inappropriate. She was… He shouldn’t...  
Wait. What was she wearing?  
She mustn’t be left alone in the company of a man, what would people think...  
“Dirthara, let’s not…” Solas’ words were swallowed by her and his sentence ended in a incoherent mumble.  
A cool hand against the skin of his back; cold, nimble fingers at the strap in his pants, her tongue lightly brushing against his upper lip. Solas gasped for air.  
“What?” He could hear the laughter in her voice, and maybe that teasing tone was what reminded him. “We shouldn’t what?”  
All of a sudden, his memory was refreshed; what she wore the last time he saw her in this room. He grunted and bit her tongue, maybe a little too hard.  
She was dressed in his tattered old tunic. He recognized the feel of the fabric, didn’t have the need to really look into it closely.  
Oh, damn, she wore his…  
“Never mind”, he muttered hoarsely between kisses, which was answered with a giggle.  
And that was all she wore, he realized as his hand trailed along her hip and waist. So soft, skin like silk, her muscles strong and firm under his touch. Every inch of her so perfect.  
“If I just could… all of it at once”, he muttered unintelligibly as his hands traveled up towards her chest on the outside of that damned tunic. Somehow, Dirthara’s blankets had fallen down to the floor and she now had him in a leg lock.  
All of it at once?”, Dirthara repeated with a moan when he cupped one of her small breasts in his hand. Petite, she had always been petite, but her shapes were well proportioned. Curves that he had caressed in his thoughts for too long, that his hands craved...  
“Mhm.” Solas’ lips trailed away along her jawbone and when he reached her neck he bit her again, just couldn’t restrain himself. Another low moan, and her nails clawing at the skin of his back was enough of a confirmation, but when Dirthara pulled his new enchanted tunic over his head there wasn’t much left to argue about.  
This was happening. His thumb brushed against the outer curve of her breast as he pulled the torn cloth further up.  
His old tunic.  
He remembered it vividly; how the neckline had plunged down between her small breasts, how it almost fell off from her shoulders… Oh, that thought alone made him want to tear it off with his teeth, rip the fabric…  
No. That would be taking things too far.  
And then he felt Dirthara’s fingers around his member, forgot all about restraint. Needed her skin against his, instantly. He lifted himself up from her, grabbed the tunic by the neck and pulled at it with a heavy exhale. It was torn from top to bottom in one single motion and Dirthara’s gasp of surprise mixed with the sound of tearing fabric was strangely arousing.  
...If he really needed more of that, he questioned with a grunt when in the very next instance the slender fingers in his pants gently squeezed his shaft. He could feel every nerve throbbing under her touch and moaned when her hand slowly moved up and down along his length, and this was so unfair, Solas could hardly concentrate on what he had before him.  
“Uh, Dirthara, this is…” He swallowed and closed his eyes when he felt her thumb stroke over the head of his manhood. The pleasure rushed through his every nerve and forced his mind in one direction only. “This is… Oh, fenedhis lasa, just stop.”  
“Why?” Dirthara giggled and pulled him closer again with her free hand. Solas’ reply was muted by her lips.  
Well, because he couldn’t contain himself, because he didn’t know how long he would last… He responded to her hungry lips just as eagerly, would have eaten her whole if he only could. And she was slowly pushing him up, up, up…  
This would be over all too soon.  
Solas pulled himself free from her impatient hands with mixed feelings. The erection in his pants was a harsh reminder and something he couldn’t ignore; every fibre of him wanted to finish that thing off, but there was still so much to explore.  
“Why?” He panted and wiped his face with one hand. “Because it’s my turn.”  
With tongue and lips, with hands and eyes - he wanted to explore all of her, hadn’t he just told her that? He sat up, kneeling in front of her, her slender legs still around his waist. She didn’t look innocent anymore, and frankly he couldn’t understand how he had seen innocence in her at all. Some colour had returned to Dirthara’s cheeks, her lips were parted in a cocky grin, swollen and red, his stubble had left marks on her chin. Her breath came in fast huffs.  
“Oh, yeah?” She put her arms behind her head and gave him an evaluating glance.  
Those eyes. Oh, he could forget everything and just stay here for the rest of his days.  
“Indeed”, he stated, but he didn’t sound as relaxed as he wanted. His pulse was fast, he was out of breath and…   
...Oh, damn, she was not helping. His eyes wandered below her face. The tunic was unevenly ripped apart and exposed her soft white skin. The air was cool in the room; she had goosebumps and her light pink nipples were small hard knots.  
Oh, she was young. Too young, he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t feel like this. A pair of perky little breasts, perfectly rounded, her heaving chest, the curve of her waist and the light hint of a hipbone just over her thighs…  
And he was caught between them. Separating his erection and her bare sex? Just the fabric of his pants, a thought that made him lose his focus completely.  
Too easily distracted, it had been too long, he was dazed, already light-headed.  
He cleared his throat, hoping that this would be enough to clear his head, before he returned his gaze to Dirthara’s face. She was smiling, with one eyebrow lifted as if she was expecting some sort of reaction.   
As if anyone could say something negative about this view… Solas tipped forward and landed on his hands, on top of her again.  
“You already know that you are beautiful”, he hummed with a weak smile and kissed her softly. She exhaled through her nose and kissed him back; soon enough her arms were around his neck again. Little sounds of pleasure escaped her when his hand cupped her breast again, when he rolled her hard nipple between his thumb and index finger. She sucked on his bottom lip and Solas was pushing down another urge to bite; every hitched breath that was uttered, every little sound made him want to pull her into himself, eat her up, flip her over and take her hard from the behind...  
...Not a side of himself that he was particularly proud of.   
His focus remained, only because he needed to be leashed, held back, lest he’d do something unforgivable. He left bite marks on her perfect skin, but neither bruises or wounds. His hands were being grabby, slightly harder than he’d prefer, but the feeling of her softer tissue being squeezed between his fingers…   
But he was at least not tearing her apart.  
Ironically, Dirthara questioned his efforts.  
“I was expecting something less… controlled”, she whispered in between those sounds of pleasure, and Solas almost thought that she was driving him mad on purpose.  
“Are you sure that ‘less controlled’ is what you want?” he grumbled with his lips against her throat, before he moved further down. With one breast in his hand he enfolded her other nipple in his mouth an seized it between his teeth.  
Dirthara gasped then snickered. “That sounded menacing.”  
Solas snorted and let his hand travel further south. He could feel her wet warmth against his hip, could smell it; she was ready to take him but he wasn’t done. He wanted her to beg for it, scream until her tower crumbled.   
Teasing light touches along the soft skin of the inside of her thigh, slow circles moving up from her knee. He almost snickered when she spread her legs to his touch, when he heard her breathe even faster. His hand returned to the knee, followed the outside of her thigh, a firm clasp around her buttock.   
Less controlled.   
If it wasn’t for restraint, he’d be done already, exhausted and completely drained; she would be disappointed, put something on and leave him alone - with his shame slowly turning soft between his thighs. It wasn’t easy, to be honest. The throbbing reminder in his pants wasn’t something easily turned off, especially when she kept making those noises.  
Who was he kidding, being her was enough. This was something he had wanted for a very long time.  
And wouldn’t it be amusing to see her focus dominated?  
His fingers circled through the brittle hairs between her legs and she hummed, her clasp around his neck hardened and Solas chuckled and gave her nipple a harder bite when he yet again moved his hand away along her thigh.  
“If you’re not going to do anything about it…” Dirthara whispered between her sighs, and removed her hand from his neck.   
Not going to do anything…? Solas looked up and Dirthara replied with one of those cocky grins. Her hands were slowly moving down over her chest, belly, the blond curls between her thighs. Solas was confused at first, sat up on his knees again. Should he leave?   
But that look in her eyes. Dark pits under heavy eyelids - she wanted him to stay, wanted him to look as her middle and index finger slid inside her, the slick wetness on her hand when she began to touch herself in slow, circular motions.  
Damn. It was like staring into the sun; he knew he shouldn’t...  
She clutched one of her breasts, teased the nipple, held her breath for a second before she let out a little sigh of pleasure. Solas felt dizzy, didn’t know what to do with his hands, wanted so badly to just…  
No.  
He backed down, kissed the inside of her thigh, couldn’t resist to bite her soft skin a bit harder than he intended. Dirthara made another sound of pleasure, maybe it didn’t matter even though he might have left a mark. She glistened with wetness and the scent that reminded him of the sea stimulated every nasty thought he ever had. He wanted to watch her hand at work, which was surprisingly arousing, wanted to see her come, to hear her… but most of all he wanted her to scream. Solas grabbed her hand and tasted her fingers one by one - a familiar taste. Dirthara looked at him as through a haze, a weak smile between parted lips, chest heaving. She had brought herself far, was almost there - he would only have to push her lightly over the top. Over and over and over again, he thought to himself as he dove down on her with a grin.  
And she was easy to please. Every flicker with his tongue, every slight motion made her sing, roll her hips against his face. He could feel the muscles in her buttocks work under his hands as she moved her legs in uncontrolled spasms.  
“It’s enough”, she whispered between her sighs, with her hands clasping his head, “I can’t take any more!”  
Cacophonous convulsions, guttural exaltations that could make one wonder if she wasn’t a demon after all; Solas wasn’t planning to stop just yet. He held her down and continued - needed to get that erection down before he did something stupid. Writing the entire alphabet with his tongue, to then move on to numerals - that was what he had in mind, but he hadn’t even gotten to the letter ‘R’. And the screams became louder, came with every breath, Dirthara grabbed one of her pillows and hid her face in it. She was shivering, glistening of wetness and sweat, and when she finally reached a new high, she fell back against the bed with a shrill shriek. Solas lifted his head and climbed back up on top of her. She was panting heavily into her pillow and he removed it from her face just to look at her.  
She was so beautiful. He couldn’t be this lucky.  
“You bastard”, Dirthara breathed and smiled before she opened her eyes and pulled him into an embrace. “You utter bastard.”  
Solas chuckled and met her gaze, ready to drown. Now, he could let go. So he kissed her again, harder than before, his hands were everywhere and he let them. She did the same; teeth and tongue, hands and fingers; a pleasure in exploring every little square inch of skin and the excitement that followed being examined in the same manner back. He felt her groping his buttocks rather roughly, noticed that her hands had slipped into his pants again; she pulled and tugged at the strap that held them up and finally got them off. His erection was restored and rested between them on her belly. He didn’t grind it against her on purpose, only realized that he had when he yet again felt her fingers around his shaft. Not as cold this time, so when she gently squeezed it in her hand he realized that he wouldn’t last too long. Her slow movement up and down along his length made him bite her bottom lip a bit too hard. He tasted metal, and immediately thought he might have caused her to bleed.  
“I’m sorry”, he whispered between clenched teeth, before she even got a chance to express any pain.  
“I need you”, was the only response he got as she bit him back, and just moments later - before he even had a chance to think things through - she steered him right and he found himself overwhelmed just from slowly rocking himself further and further inside of her.   
She was so tight. He cursed, she screamed and locked her legs around his hips, then he couldn’t keep the beast in anymore. With every thrust, a sensation that made him se spots, every nerve detonating electricity. The pulsating sensation of her along his shaft, her lips, her body… There was nothing left but feelings, and when he finally reached the top, she clenched around him, screaming. He roared, fell, exploded from the base of his manhood, every muscle twitching as he collapsed on top of her.

Dirthara

Well, that was… Interesting. Not what she had expected. Painful at first - very painful. As if he was tearing her apart. But when the pain subdued… A weak smile spread over her lips and her fingers played over his sweaty skin. His head against her shoulder, the majority of his weight over her heaving chest, his heavy breathing mixed with her own. Almost glued together with sweat, it was difficult to move.  
Yes, when the pain subdued, she forgot everything around her. Everything but him and her pleasure, his motions and her own. He found a spot in her, and when she angled her hips just right… It became an egocentric need to reach the top faster, every move forced forward by nothing but base emotions.  
The weight of Solas’ relaxed body on top of her, his panting in her ear, it felt somewhat comforting afterwards. Made sure that she wasn’t going to fly away anytime soon. She felt completely weightless. Or extremely heavy. Couldn’t quite decide. Satisfied.  
She had been told that it usually was unpleasant the first time, that she would be sore and find it difficult to sit down afterwards. That intercourse was uninteresting at best in the beginning.  
This experience had been… How to put it? She felt disconnected, too relaxed in her body and mind to find the words to describe it. A discharge, similar to the sensation of mana pouring through your every fibre when performing a particularly intricate spell.  
And how on Thedas did they end up in this situation all of a sudden? They were just talking, and then… What action had triggered it?  
It was done. No turning back. Not that she wanted to.  
Solas grunted and began to move again. She could feel him slip out of her, and maybe she was just a little sore. It stinged, as if she had been stretched, or maybe it was just caused by friction. He lifted his head and looked down at her with a tired smile. The warmth in his eyes when he lifted his hand and let his fingers wander along the tattoo on her face. He smelled of her, just like he had tasted of her earlier.  
“This was not something I had planned”, he murmured, as if he had been reading her thoughts; leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. “I admit that I have thought of it, but…” His ears turned slightly pinker.  
Dirthara snickered and nipped his upper lip between hers. “What, you never go all the way on a first date?”  
Solas grinned. “I wouldn’t call this a date, more of a casual encounter.”  
Dirthara let her fingers follow the lines and marks of his face. An old healed scar in his forehead, the wrinkles between his eyebrows, the dimple in his chin. “Yes, casual encounters usually have the entire realm in shock. My windows are open, we weren’t exactly discrete.”  
“Does it matter?” Solas kissed the tip of her nose and gave her a curious look.  
No, not really. People already talked, this would hardly make any difference. But the coldness in the room was not really an enjoyable side benefit.  
“No, if you choose to avoid the part where I freeze to death”, Dirthara replied with a smirk.  
“Oh, right.” Solas got out of the bed in one swift motion and walked towards the nearest window.   
“No, I didn’t mean it like that”, Dirthara protested, but not without admiring his backside. He really had strong, muscular legs and nice, firm buttocks; Varric had a point there. “It’s not that cold, come back.”   
The sun was up, it had to be around noon already, people would be up and about. Oh, by all things holy, everyone would have heard that...   
Her focus returned to the bed soon enough, however. She was lying in a pool of… well, juices didn’t sound very nice, and the thought of being covered in it made her feel slightly septic, but this wetness was getting cold.  
“Urgh, disgusting”, Dirthara muttered to herself and sat up to move away from that spot in the bed. She was just about to move all the pillows to the other end of the bed when Solas made an exclamation that made her pause and turn her head.  
“No, no, no.” He groaned and looked in disbelief at the wet spot on the mattress. Dirthara followed his glance and noticed a small trace of blood on the sheet. She had expected as much, but for some reason, Solas seemed stunned. He stood on the floor with his back towards the closed window, naked and with her comforter hanging from his hand. Dirthara found it difficult to be concerned, in all honesty she was yet again more interested in the shapes of him. His sinewy muscles, how the little amount of hair on his body was concentrated in the middle. A faint string of dark hairs trailing down from his bellybutton. His skin was pale, except from on his hands and head; stark lines where his clothes had ended. The jawbone of a canine was still hanging in a leather strap around his neck - the only thing he wore.  
“This is not right”, Solas continued and dropped the comforter he was holding. “This was not…”  
He sighed and began to pace, as if he didn’t care or hadn’t realized that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. His bare feet hardly made a sound over the stones. “I’m so sorry, Dirthara…”  
Sorry? He was sorry? Was he going to run off and hide again, keep to himself to ‘consider’ things? Dirthara paused everything she was doing and glared at him.  
“What, you regret this? Now?” He couldn’t be serious. There was always something...  
Solas stopped and hid his face behind his hands with a low moan. “No… yes, I don’t know…”  
“We can’t have this.” Dirthara stood up too, left the bed and grabbed the sheet that had fallen to the floor on the other side of the bed and wrapped herself in it. If this was how he was going to treat her, she could at least try to look dignified.   
As if nature wanted to point out the irony of the situation, she felt his seed leave her body and run down the inside of her thigh.   
Oh, damn, she would need herbs… Which was it? How many? How long had it been since her last period? She had never done this before, by Mythal, what if she was…? And he was back at ‘considering’ things! Dirthara could cry. “Please, Solas, not this again!”  
The desperation she felt must have been heard in her words, because Solas stopped and sighed, turned around and met her glance across the messy bed. “Ar lath ma, vhenan!”  
He stated this with a loud voice, but with furrowed brows and a saddened look on his face. Dirthara froze. Those words carried a higher meaning when they were said in the tongue of the elves, at least to her. If he’d just used the language of the shemlens, she wouldn’t have reacted as strongly. Maybe the words meant the same, but to her the common tongue was bland and watered down, every expression just words.  
“Solas, that is…” Her mouth was dry and her voice sounded raspy. “You mustn’t use those words if you don’t mean them.”  
“Dirthara, when you smile, my whole world stops for a moment. I love every perfect imperfection that is you, and I never lived before I met you.” Solas voice was weak and the sorrow in his eyes made the pale smile that followed an expression of hopelessness.  
“But…” she didn’t deserve this - him. She had done horrible things, unspeakable things that she didn’t dare to tell him of. “You shouldn’t!”  
Solas chuckled, but looked down at his feet. “I know, but it’s the only answer I have.”  
She wasn’t ready for this. Was he expecting her to respond in the same way? She couldn’t, because it would make her a horrible person. What she had done towards Dirth, Solas’ friend… She couldn’t stand here with a straight face and tell him those words when she…  
But the connection, there had been something from the very beginning...  
“I believe that it is love that I’m feeling too, Solas”, she began tentatively, but she didn’t dare to meet his gaze. To look busy, she turned around and walked to the second window in the room and closed it. “I am fairly certain that it is, but I need to…”  
“Yes.” Solas sighed behind her back. “I know.”  
“...and that was not what we were talking about”, Dirthara continued with a desperate wish to change the subject as quickly as possible. “You were upset about something. Please, tell me what’s going on.”  
“Your first time. I would have wanted this to be something pure.” She heard him return to his pacing. “You didn’t deserve… This.”  
Her first time. To her, it sounded like he didn’t know - hadn’t she been clear about this from the very beginning? He even slept under the stars to make sure… Dirthara turned around and leaned her back against the window frame, crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “I told you, didn’t I?”  
“But you and Dorian…” Solas swallowed and scratched his neck. “I've seen how you are together. And you are obviously not a novice when it comes to please a man...” The tips of his ears grew red and he cleared his throat. "And that time by the lake... You came back with your clothes all shambled.”  
Dorian?! He couldn't be serious, could he? In all honesty, she had been doing more exploring of the opposite sex together with Farras. Their shy attempts caused some tremor when it finally was known, but Farras understood as well as she did that they never could fulfill… Their relation was why she wasn’t allowed to speak to him anymore, why he moved in with the hunters - he wasn’t even supposed to follow her to Haven…   
And now he was gone.  
And did it really matter? If she had done anything of the sort together with Dorian, why was it so important what he used his pecker for? Maybe she was arguing for the sake of arguing, but she was too worked up to let this go.  
“Why is a woman’s purity always measured from a man’s perspective?”, Dirthara asked with a deceivingly soft voice. “She has to be conquered, mounted and penetrated, is that it?”  
Solas flinched, could obviously hear the anger behind her soft spoken words.  
“Oh. That is not at all...”  
“Just as you gave pleasure to me… Can I not please you with my lips, tongue, fingers…”, Dirthara continued with a purr, words that had Solas stop mid step and turn to look at her. That hunger in his eyes was back, his manhood swelling and twitching. He muttered something under his breath and Dirthara could have laughed out loud if she hadn’t been in such a bad mood. Was he that easy to get aroused? How did he manage…?  
“And still you will not credit this”, she made a gesture towards the blood stain on her sheet, “as a choice of my own?”  
“It isn’t…” Solas began, but was interrupted.  
“Do I need you to make major decisions for me, is that what you are saying?” It wasn’t him, she knew it wasn’t him. She was frustrated with herself, and she let him face the storm. She was unfair and she knew it.  
“Not at all. What I’m saying is…” Solas paused and cleared his throat. “I would have made things differently if I had known, because this… It was all desperation, pleasure for the sake of pleasure...”  
“Oh.” Dirthara was slightly taken aback by his words. He was, as always, just concerned about her comfort and health; was upset because he hadn’t kept that detail in mind. With those words, there was no more arguing.  
“I…” Solas gave her a serious glance. “I don’t want to hurt you; there is enough pain in the world as it is.”  
He looked so lonely, even more so now when he was naked. It wasn’t that, however, that had her walk around the bed towards him where he stood on the floor. He showed her a little glimpse of his soul, exposed himself to her with just a few words. That expression that told her that he really needed a hug. And how could she be this heartless?  
Dirthara sighed. “I’m sorry, Solas. I don’t deserve you.” She stopped in front of him and sneaked her arms around his waist. She was soon enough cradled in his warm embrace, his chin resting against her temple.  
“No, it’s the other way around”, Solas whispered. “I never thought that I’d meet someone like you, not in this lifetime.”  
Dirthara could feel her cheeks become warmer, but she lifted her head anyway to look him in the eyes. “Solas, ar lath ma. I truly do, but I’m a horrible person.”  
Her words made him smile. “We all have regrets”, he pointed out before he gave her a gentle kiss.  
“In that case, come back to bed and give me something else to think about”; Dirthara whispered against his lips, “I’m surrounded by death and life is too short for pointless arguments.”  
Solas chuckled and pulled her closer. “You continue to surprise me”, he murmured with his lips just inches away from hers.  
“If you want to make things right, now’s your chance”, she murmured and let the sheet she had around her fall.  
Solas grunted, his hands were immediately stroking over her bare skin, giving her goosebumps all over. He forcefully enveloped her lips between his. Hungry, his fingers entangled in the hair of her neck as if he needed to keep her from running away.   
“Are you sure you are not a demon of desire?” he murmured hoarsely.  
The sensation of skin against skin, his tongue, hands - and she had thought that their kiss in the Fade had been an exhilarating experience.  
“Do you dare to find out?” she asked, a throaty grumble when Solas’ teeth left another mark on her neck. If he kept on like this, she wouldn’t be able to keep her balance. Her legs were all wobbly from before, this didn’t make things easier.  
“If you are, I’m already lost.” Solas lifted her up in his arms.


	26. Keeping up appearances

Solas

Solas woke up from a dream, a very fascinating dream - and yes, Dirthara was in it - just to become aware of the fact that the dream didn’t end just because he woke up. Delirious, dazed and absolutely intoxicated, he noticed that She was still there; her head resting on his shoulder, her naked body close to his. He had to touch her just to make sure she wasn’t a figment of his imagination.  
Oh, Dirthara, Dirthara, Dirthara… Didn’t she even notice the ripples she caused? With her by his side, he could be happy. She was worth saving, and by that the world she knew. It didn’t matter anymore, there was nothing else left to save anyway.   
Entangled in her, in the sheets and covered in sweat, he remembered a different time, a different place; a time when these feelings had caused frustration instead of wonder. If he’d understood then what he understood now, he wouldn’t have let her slip between his fingers.  
And what a wonder it was.  
She loved him!   
He still couldn’t believe it, but she had screamed it to the skies, over and over again until the stars faded and the sun came up, and she didn’t leave when he woke up.   
He didn’t mind the sweat, that the windows were covered with condensation, that she had drooled on his shoulder in her sleep. Instead, he pulled her closer, kissed her forehead and kept her in his arms as if the world would end if he lost her. Hid his nose in her hair just to breathe in her scent and closed his eyes. Expensive spices; saffron and cinnamon, cloves and cardamom, the lilies of the valley. A hint of the sea, the Storm Coast, as if he could sense every road she ever traveled just from her scent.  
Yes, yes. It was based on his romanticized perspective of her. She smelled of sweat and sex, just as himself. But on her, it felt spicy and flowery, because that was his view of her.   
He listened to her breath as it changed just before she woke up, and when she did he wondered why he had been so stupid, why it took him this long to understand. She opened her eyes, those wonderful eyes, squinted in the morning light, met his gaze and smiled, still with one foot left in their dream.  
“Good morning”, she muttered and moved even closer with a sigh of content. Her cool fingers were idly drawing circles on his chest, his hand memorizing the curve of her hip, the valley that was her waist.   
“Did you sleep well?” Solas couldn’t hide the wolfish grin that he knew spread on his lips. Dirthara snorted and lifted her head, rested it in the palm of her hand.  
“You wouldn’t believe the dream I had about you...” A smirk, her eyes pinned on her hand on his chest. That look of innocence that he’d recently learnt meant the best kind of bad.  
Solas snickered. “Try me, I have a pretty vivid imagination.”  
“Yes, I’ve noticed.” Dirthara looked up from her hand and their eyes met. “You, sir, have a very dirty mind.”  
Her comment, combined with that virtuous look made such a stark contrast to her messy hair and naked skin against his that it had him burst into laughter. She really was the best kind of bad and she knew it. He could stay in their little bubble of bliss forever. And when she leaned down to plant a simple peck on his mouth, he grabbed her by the neck and rolled up on top of her without letting go of her lips.  
And she sang from every fibre, just like the wind and the waves, her cadence a strong vibration that mixed so well with his own. She was the sun, the moon and the stars in his endless darkness. 

He eventually had to leave her tower though, and did so in the most idiotic manner. The prolonged farewell by her door, where he returned into her arms over and over again because it felt so good to just forget about everything outside; that stupid smile that he just couldn’t remove when he skipped down the stairs and entered the great hall; all those stupid things that only fools in love do.  
Well, at least until that scoundrel of a dwarf decided to open his mouth.  
“Ah, there you are.” Varric’s voice echoed across the room. Laughter behind his words; Solas furrowed his brows and tried to collect himself. It didn’t work too well, it was such a beautiful day. A lovely shade of gray in the sky, the rattle of heavy rain on the window glass... Solas and Varric met in the middle of the room, and Solas just hoped that the dwarf for once would keep his voice down, other than that he was in a pretty good state.  
“From that display yesterday, I take it that your talk with Scraps went well?” Varric looked so pleased with himself that Solas was pulled out of his bubble of bliss rather forcefully.   
“We agreed on some key points”, he replied, as calmly as he could.  
Varric snickered. “You reek of horizontal tango, Chuckles, there’s no point in trying to make this look like something else. Besides, I got all the juicy details over breakfast. Cole told me. I think. He might have been talking about fly fishing, when I come to think of it. The point is...”  
Solas grumbled and felt how his ears turned red. “Privacy, is that something you only read of in books of common courtesy?”  
Varric looked like he thought those words through for a moment before he nodded with an agreeing sound. “Yes, At least when you proclaim your actions as loud as you did. We’re all crammed in here like sardines; there isn’t much room for privacy.”  
“Yes, well.” Not much to say about that, because it was true. He had thought that it didn’t matter, in the heat of the moment, but in retrospect… “You mentioned breakfast. I need to grab a bite.”  
Varric laughed so hard that his entire body was jumping in convulsions. “If you want to keep things to yourself, you should have a bath first”, he stated and shook his head. “I knew you would…”  
“Yes, yes. Give in to the urges, I’ve heard”, Solas interrupted, and decided that a bath might not be such a bad idea. A swim in an ice cold spring would have been to prefer, but he was too hungry for a longer hike in this blasted rain.

Later that day, when he was cleaned up, fed and back at his desk in the rotunda, he found his mind drifting. It wasn’t much needed; her scent was in his clothes, a long strand of blonde hair was stuck on his tunic and at one point he heard someone call for the Inquisitor in the great hall.  
It made him think of her in other ways quite fast. What she had looked like in one of his old tunics (he hoped that the rest of them had found their way to her drawers too), how it would feel to slowly unbutton all those shiny buttons in her leather coat and vest, how her skin felt to his touch, how she bit her bottom lip to prevent herself from screaming out loud…  
...which eventually led him to fantasize about what he’d like to do to her later. Visualisations that could get very inventive. Well, he was a dreamer, and to be able to shape the Fade around you, you had to have a rather rich imagination.  
And of course Dirthara wasn’t making it easier by having - or finding - errands through his room every now and then. Wasn’t she passing by a bit more often than she used to?   
At first, they just exchanged smiles, Dirthara with a distant minded look upon her face that made him think that this was nothing but her work face. It became more and more obvious, and when she hurried through his room a fifth time; supposedly on her way to Leliana; he couldn’t stand it any longer.  
“Inquisitor?” He rushed after her into the archway that lead to the stairs up.  
“Yes?” Dirthara stopped and turned around, eyebrows lifted in a question. They were lowered when he slowly pushed her against the wall and pinned her against it with his bodyweight.  
“I just needed you to look into some facts”, he said with a smile as he gently placed his hands on her hips and stroked them up along her waist.  
“Facts… Yes.” A devious glint in her eyes and a crooked smile. “What kind of facts?”  
“Oh, just that your kissable lips, the sway of your hips and your sublime grace makes me think of you in other ways... Inquisitor.” Solas lowered his head and stole a tender kiss. Warm, wet, the scent of flowers and spices - for real this time, she must have had a bath. He lifted his head again just to look at her. Strange, this haze that filled his mind; he forgot every sorrow in her proximity.  
Dirthara snickered and placed her hands on his chest. “This is unfair, why didn’t Varric picture you as poetically?”  
Solas leaned closer again and his nose brushed against hers. “Isn’t it obvious?” His thumbs brushed along the outer curve of her breasts before he moved his hands down to her waist again.  
“Poetry has nothing to do with genders”, Dirthara whispered against his mouth as she made a similar motion over his torso. She ended her statement with a little peck on his lips. “Solas, I have to go.”  
Oh, you teasing little...  
“Already?”, Solas grabbed Dirthara’s hand and tangled his fingers with hers. “You should trust Varric on this matter though, you have to remember that he does have a rather good perspective.”  
Dirthara smiled and gave his hand a light press. “I’d love to prove you wrong, but I’m rather busy at the moment.”  
“What could be more important than me?” Solas jeered, but kissed her on the nose and let her out of his grip. They exchanged another smile before he turned around to leave. He identified her almost inaudible strides as she skipped up the stairs and was just about to return into the room at the bottom floor of the rotunda when she called him back.  
“Solas?”  
“Yes?” He spun around and walked back to the stairs. Dirthara was on her way back down again and stopped just one step above him. A pause followed, and she inhaled.   
“You are important, Solas. Especially to me.”  
And when Dirthara put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, those little words made him choke up. He hid his nose against her shoulder, and maybe his embrace was slightly harder than intended, but she fit so perfectly in his arms and he never wanted to let her go.

Dirthara

A quick escape from everything. Too much to think of to keep smiling for the masses. Dirthara had found her peace in the staircase leading to her chambers, had been sitting there long enough to feel the cold seeping into her very bones. For the hundredth time, she unfolded the letter she had kept in her pocket all day. She knew the content by now, just read it to remember all the faces, all the little things that had been meaningful in her younger years.

Da'len,  
I would not trouble you normally. You have enough on your shoulders, fighting ancient Tevinter magisters while representing your people. Unfortunately, the rifts that plague this land have spread chaos and fear along with them, and many seek to take advantage of it.

Bandits are attacking Clan Lavellan. The raiders are well armed and heavily armored, and they come in numbers our hunters cannot match. We had settled in a small unclaimed valley not far from Wycome, a safe place with few rifts—but these bandits may force us to seek a new home. If your Inquisition can help, you might save our clan much hardship.

Dareth shiral,  
Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan

The letter reached her hand that very same morning when Dirthara summoned her advisors around the war table. Leliana had looked very serious, more so than usual, and the silence in the war room made Dirthara realize that this little piece of folded paper was of importance. When she opened it and read it, every word hit her like a hard fist in her stomach. It was her mother’s handwriting, and in all politeness a scream for help. Her mother never asked for anything if it wasn’t needed.  
“These seem too powerful to be mere bandits”, Leliana had said when Dirthara was finished reading. “My skirmishers can harass their flanks and give the Dalish a chance to retreat safely.”  
“I have troops stationed not far from the Antivan border.” Cullen had pointed to one of his metal figures on the war table. “This could be dealt with swiftly.”  
Josephine had shaken her head in disbelief. “The Duke of Wycome is an Inquisition ally, surely he has the forces to deal with these bandits?”  
Dirthara had folded the paper slowly and put it in one of her pockets, too emotional to speak straight away. “Don’t you find it odd that the Duke of Wycome hasn’t dealt with these bandits already?” Dirthara had asked. “Leliana, something isn’t right here. Could you…?”  
She had found it hard to finish that sentence, and Leliana had grabbed her by the arm and led her out of the room.  
“Inquisitor. I am sending my birds. I have people in Hercinia, they move faster than Cullen’s troops, we can be there within days. If you want, I can have a personal letter sent on your behalf.”

That was several hours ago, and the birds were sent. It was naïve to think that Leliana could have answers already, but Dirthara couldn’t help it. During the day, she had returned to the rotunda several times, always with her hopes up.  
But now, she wasn’t sure anymore. According to Leliana, it would take about two days for the birds to reach The Free Marches. This letter was dated a couple of days earlier; would there be anything to save when Leliana’s skirmishers arrived?  
She traced the handwriting with her fingertips, remembered how her mother used to smile when their camp came closer to the coast. Wycome, Dirthara had fond memories from there. Her father had brought her to the city just to show her the floating aravels, but Dirthara had been more fascinated with the market. People from everywhere in the world, and everything was bathing in the smell of saltwater and fish.  
How could a day that started out so perfect become this…  
Dirthara sighed and hid her face in her hands. Here, she had been frollicking about, and they were fighting for their lives. What could she do to help from the other end of the world?  
The Avvar had arrived at Skyhold, maybe she could discuss this with Sky Watcher.  
Wasn’t Vivienne from Wycome? Leliana’s spies were formidable, but they didn’t have access everywhere. Maybe Vivienne had some information that could help?  
With a small glint of hope she returned to the rotunda again, offered Solas another shy smile as she crossed his office. Right now, he wa a distraction that she couldn’t deal with.  
“Inquisitor?” His voice, a soft reminder of his existence, then the sound of his chair scraping against the floor as he stood up. Dirthara’s heart skipped a beat and she turned around. “Yes?”

A brief exchange of words in a rosy haze and a stolen moment of intimacy later, nothing felt impossible. Solas had been her rock since her first day in Haven, someone she could rely on. Did he realize what an impact he had on her? Her feet felt lighter when she flew up the stairs, her mind not as dark and gloomy as before; on the next floor she couldn’t help but stopping to look down at him as he calmly returned to his desk and grabbed his quill. As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up and they exchanged another smile before Dirthara let go of the bannister and kept walking.

“Ah, darling! I’ve been meaning to ask you about the ball!” Vivienne met her with open arms on her balcony, air kisses cheek-to-cheek in abundance.  
“The ball?” What ball? Had there been a ball somewhere? Was she talking about the party Vivienne had invited her to, when they first met?  
“At the Winter Palace! From what I hear, you practically have the invitation in your hand! Now tell me, sweetheart, you are not going to wear those…” she made a vague gesture towards Dirthara’s leisure clothes, “...pajamas, are you?”  
Dirthara spread her arms and looked down at her own appearance. A gray shirt, matching gray pants, comfortable and practical. “What’s wrong with this?”  
Wait. A ball at the Winter Palace? What on Thedas was going on…  
Vivienne let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, you are adorable. The clothes makes the wearer, Inquisitor. You are a killer, you should dress to kill.”  
Dirthara furrowed her brows and felt even more confused. “This ball…”  
“Yes, The Orlesian peace talks.” Vivienne sighed and smiled. “It is the perfect opportunity for you, Darling, don’t throw this away. Which reminds me...”  
The enchanter’s explanation hardly made things easier to understand - what peace talks? What had happened while she was asleep? Was the civil war over? Why hadn’t Cullen mentioned such a thing this morning?  
Vivienne turned around and sank down smoothly into one of her recliners. “Please, have a seat, dear. There’s tea and Marie du Lac Erre's Sweet Ruin if you want.”  
The enchanter opened a little chest by her feet and lifted several bottles, one by one, into the light to read their labels.  
“Tea and what?” Dirthara sat down, too confused to remember why she was here in the first place.  
Vivienne sighed and looked up from her chest, a quick breeze of frustration flew over her face before she regained her cool smile. “Oh, my. Tea biscuits, dear.”  
“Oh.” Dirthara gave the content of the silver plate on the table a curious glance, frilly little things with chocolate on them - did they really need such a theatrical name?  
“Now, about your outfit, Inquisitor. In Orlais, you impress with what you wear. You will need something formal, something that is a bit more flattering to your appearance than… well, that. And a mask. I don’t suppose that Dalish nomads have a heraldry to show in the shape of a mask?”  
“A mask… No, we don’t have those, but the mark of the Lavellan has always been a Tirashan swiftwind…” Dirthara understood, upon the blank stare she got from Vivienne, that the enchanter didn’t know what a Tirashan swiftwind was. “Um… It’s a fast hart with white fur and large horns”, she explained hastily.  
“Ah.” Vivienne returned to her chest and lifted another bottle, red the label and smiled. “Oh, here it is. Yes, you remember me mentioning this ball being a huge opportunity for you?”  
“Yes?” Dirthara still couldn’t figure out why she would attend a ball in Orlais, but she decided that the questions would have to wait.  
“Yes. Now, is it my imagination, dear, or have certain... lingering looks passed between you and our Solas?” Vivienne cleared her throat and a small crease appeared between her eyebrows. “I don't know what to make of him dear, you should be careful.”  
Dirthara felt how her face turned absolutely crimson. “Lingering looks?” She repeated slowly and couldn’t remove the thought of his hands, lips… “Careful?”  
“Yes, you need to think about your future, darling. Have you ever questioned why he has so much knowledge and so little personal history?” Vivienne reached across the table and silently offered Dirthara the bottle in her hand. “I find that... peculiar, don't you? Or at least, not very ambitious.”  
Dirthara took the bottle, turned it around in her hand and studied the little white paper tag that was tied to its neck. ‘Post Coital, Daucus Carota. Oral drops’. If her face wasn’t red enough already, it definitely crossed the border at that exact moment.  
“Are you suggesting…” Dirthara didn’t even have the audacity to end that sentence.  
“Oh, Sweetheart, this is not a suggestion, it is common sense.” Vivienne didn’t even blink. “The apostate… I mean Solas. He is absolutely delightful and could probably - in his own special little way - be an intriguing divertissement, but you have to remember who you are, Inquisitor.”  
“Ah.” Dirthara forced a smile to her face and swallowed her anger. “Thank you very much for your advice, Lady Vivienne, I will keep your concerns in mind. Incidentally, this”, Dirthara lifted the bottle and gave it a little shake, “was exactly the reason why I came here.”  
A little white lie, which would keep Vivienne out of her hair and give herself a reason to leave before she exploded.  
“Of course it was.” The enchanter didn’t show a face, but Dirthara knew that the woman didn’t believe a word she said. Damn it, Vivienne wouldn’t leave this alone, Dirthara just knew it.


	27. In the middle of the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another OC that needs to be mentioned. Dirthara's father Gisharel decides to show up.

Solas

Solas had finally found something to do that made him focus. The Vint had come by a couple of hours earlier with one of the strange shards that Dirthara had been bringing home from every corner of Thedas. Dorian had looked rather irritated, and for some very ridiculous reason, Solas had thought that he understood the reason for said irritation; felt how a silent pride of victory made him stand straighter. In retrospect, he was acting like an adolescent high on too much hormones - to his embarrassment he might even have puffed his chest out a bit.   
It was, however, not the loss of the fair maiden’s heart that had Dorian look so glum; it was that humming piece of stone and clay under his arm.   
“I am almost certain that this thing is an old Imperial relic of some sorts”, the Vint had muttered as he dropped the thing on Solas’ table with a loud bang. “I am appalled about the state of our library, maybe you can find something on this cursed thing in the Fade or something.”   
Dorian had left, pretty much as fast as he had appeared, muttered something about how the winery was in a similarly bad state as he left the rotunda.   
“Challenge accepted”, Solas had said to himself as he sat down by his desk to study the shard. 

At first glance, it didn’t look like much. It sang and shone of old magic, and it looked rather primitive. Solas wasn’t sure though if it was of Imperial or Elven origin; those two forms of magic had a tendency to melt together, and maybe it wasn’t primitive, just made by hands that didn’t know anything else. It was a fine and exact work, the crystals well tuned to harmonize with each other. Fascinating, really; the spell wasn’t too complicated, seemed to be similar to those used to lock eluvians. It had him think of enchantments rather than spells though. Was this some kind of a key?   
Solas never noticed how the door to the rotunda opened, which was the reason for his surprise when he heard Varric speak just behind his back.  
“Chuckles, I need a word with you.”  
Solas turned around with a gasp, and it wasn’t until then he noticed that it was dark. His only light was the candles on his desk and the veilfire glowing from the scaffolding by the door. The room was veiled in shadows.  
Night already? Had he spent this much time on that thing on his desk?  
Solas snickered at himself and shook his head. “Varric. What can I do for you?”  
“It’s…” Varric squinted upwards through the rotunda. There was still lights burning on the floors above, someone was awake. “...about you-know-who. He’s arrived, and he has some news that is quite…”  
You-know-who…  
Oh, it had to be Hawke. That could really cause commotion around here. Solas nodded slowly. “Some news that you’re not sure about how to deliver. I suggest that you discuss that with the Inquisitor directly in the morning and let her take care of it. She might be young, but people listen to her.”  
Varric hissed. “It’s about the Gray Wardens. I’d like you to talk to him.”  
The Gray Wardens. Solas knew that he wouldn’t be able to handle that conversation without feeling personally attacked. “It is not my place. Dirthara can handle it discreetly.”   
”Scraps can’t have been more than seven or eight years old during the last blight; I doubt she realizes what they really are”, Varric protested, emphasizing every word with large gestures. “Maybe I should talk to Leliana.”  
Seven or eight; the fifth blight was only eleven years ago. That was disturbing. Solas sat down on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest with a sigh. With a quick glance upwards he murmured:   
“Lady Nightingale might have the experience you’re looking for, but she is neither subtle nor diplomatic. With the risk of sounding like an echo: let the Inquisitor talk to him, she will find a solution and at the same time keep Seeker Pentaghast calm.” He gave the dwarf a meaning glance.  
“Yeah, but don’t you think she has enough on her plate, you know, with the…” Varric paused and squinted at him. “Wait, are those bite marks? Right there, on your neck.”  
“Um…” Solas lifted his hand and scratched his ear in a feeble attempt to hide the mark from the dwarf. The observant little man could luckily not see the scratches on the skin of his back. “I still think that you should discuss your problem with her first, or better yet - introduce her to you-know-who. He was willing to come here on Cassandra’s request just to be the face for the title Inquisitor, I doubt that he would find it a heavy burden to give Dirthara some advice on the matter. He’s already here and both you and I know that she is resourceful.”  
“Hm.” Varric was still staring at a point on Solas’ neck, but nodded slowly. “Good point. She was chosen for the role, I should put that much faith in her.”  
“Yes.” Solas hesitated and gave the sky above his head another glance. “As much as I enjoy talking to you, Master Tethras, it is late…”  
“Heh-heh, yeah, I know, the princess is waiting in her tower…” The dwarf winked and put his hands in his pockets. “Resourceful, you say?”  
Solas frowned and got up from the desk. “Not that it is any of your business, Varric, but I would believe that she is fast asleep. It is common among mortals to sleep at night, if you haven’t noticed.”  
“So waiting in the Fade then.” Varric chuckled and turned around to leave. “Well, I won’t disturb you.”  
Solas swallowed the curses that sprung up at the tip of his tongue - the reason for the dwarf’s snide comments were Solas’ own mistakes anyway. Varric wouldn’t have been as amused if Solas had done like every other man with common sense: accepted attraction and pursued. The fear of desire itself was not something he wanted to discuss openly, so he just watched Varric’s back as he left the rotunda before he sighed with resignation. Yes, he would go to her tower; yes, she was most certainly awaiting him.  
...And yes, she was remarkably resourceful. It was rather unsettling, when realizing how young she was - just a teen!  
Well, he knew that, or at least he had made that assumption. He had been aware, and still been drawn to her. It was however not until Varric put her years in relativity with recent history that Solas saw the full spectrum.   
Preposterous, really - he was a disgusting, sick man. If she at least had been in her thirties or forties it would have been excused, but this?  
And beyond that; what did she see in him? He was not a young man anymore, she must have noticed?  
What made it all feel a little less immoral was her spirit. It was ancient and just like Solas a piece of something else, something larger. The difference was that he remembered who he was, she didn’t.  
Just like Dirth.  
In Dirthara’s case, it was better to not remember. He hoped yet again that she’d never find the truth and remained untainted by history.  
But she did carry that ancient wisdom like a cloak. If Dirthara remembered what should have been lost, maybe Dirth could too?  
Solas scratched his chin and left the rotunda in thoughts. Wasn’t even concerned that there still was people in the great hall who saw him entering her tower.

Dirthara was fast asleep when he reached her room, just as he’d expected, but he wasn’t prepared for his own reaction. A strange sense of pride as he sat down at the edge of the bed and looked at her peaceful face. He remembered a young woman suffering from night terrors, who was too afraid to go to sleep without someone by her side. She had grown. In fact, so had he. From finding himself at the bottom, alone and misunderstood, he had been lifted up and welcomed. His thoughts on humanity had changed drastically during these last seven months since the conclave. Some things were still the same, but what could he expect when people had such short lives? Their perspectives could never be longer than a generation or two.  
Hm. Yes. That was his fault too. He had thought that he saved his people, just to wake up to a world were family and friends were long gone and…  
He leaned forward and kissed Dirthara’s forehead before he stood up from her bed. In a different time, she would have been awed for her intelligence despite her young years. A child of wonder, loved but not yet feared.   
He still felt somewhat disgusted with himself after that conversation with Varric, but didn’t want to leave her room. The couch just above the stairs was covered in books, but it would suffice. Solas smiled when he removed them, made sure that the ones that had been left open were kept so on the same page. History, theories on the Fade, books about spells and their functions; when he was her age, his chambers had looked pretty much the same, but the books were about the combination of magic and martial arts. It was a long time ago and he had been impulsive, hot tempered and fast paced, his heart burning with vengeance.  
Solas stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes.

Her cadence was distant, far deeper than it used to be, and it mingled with something else. Something new, but at the same time older. Solas couldn’t really say why he found it strange. A beat that at first had him startled, caused him to come to a halt and listen. It sounded a lot like the spirit of a bear, and the memories had told him of Hamin following in Dirthara’s footsteps before. The bear under the mountain was back where he belonged the spirits assured him; this was not even a bear. What he heard was something else, and since he couldn’t figure out what, it made him curious. Tunes that danced with Dirthara’s cadence in intricate melodies, vibrations that rang with resolution. Older; not as subtle, a mellow tone that Dirthara didn’t have; but with a similar view on opportunity.   
Another Purpose?  
Yes, most certainly! Solas followed the sounds and found a familiar scene. Just like so many times before, a camp of aravels in a clearing. They were standing in a circle around a fire surrounded by trees. This time it was dark, late at night, a breeze carrying the scent of the ocean. He could hear waves crashing against the shore in the distance, only muted by the crackling firewood as the flames devoured the logs. Dirthara sat on a log, close to the fire and bathing in the warm light, by her side sat a blue light in the shape of a man. A purpose who had chosen the image of a temple sentinel for himself.  
A temple sentinel. An image from Solas’ earliest memories flashed by. Something from before the war, something he thought that he had forgotten. It was just a vague recollection; the guards on each side of a huge entrance, doors decorated with gold and gems; but the image that found its way into his mind surprised him. A glimpse, nothing more, and he had to stop for a moment just to take in the scene in front of him before he continued forward. Solas came to a complete halt just outside the circle of light around the fire, not sure if he was welcome or not. Dirthara didn’t look up even though he knew she was aware of him, but the man turned his head and smiled.   
This was clearly not just a memory or a spirit, Solas realized. This was another dreamer.   
Weren’t they supposed to be rare these days? Felassan was the last dreamer he had met before Dirthara, and for the last two years he had been searching for them everywhere.  
Well, apparently not everywhere, he had two of them in front of him; Dirthara that he only had met by pure coincidence, and now this man. As if she’d heard his thoughts, Dirthara lifted her face to meet his glance. Not a smile, not even that glow of recognition; something wasn’t quite right. Solas returned his focus to the man again. A smooth face, definitely older than Dirthara, but with how many years? It was hard to tell. He managed to look both focused and distant-minded at the same time, as if he studied Solas while he was thinking of something completely different. The light blond hair rested in perfect waves over his shoulders and his armor was tinted in colours that matched his own palette a bit too well to be an accident.  
Somewhat familiar. Solas couldn’t quite figure out what or why. Come to think of it, even his sound was somewhat…  
That couldn’t be possible, that would make this man ancient - well, at least based on today’s standards.  
The stranger finally talked, but even though he looked at Solas, the words were directed towards Dirthara.  
“This must be Pride, of whom you spoke.” His voice was deep and he talked as if his mind was drifting. Then he chuckled and his eyes were instantly pinned on Solas face. “This is ‘the son of secrets’! He’s very silent.”  
Solas furrowed his brows and gave Dirthara another glance. ‘The son of secrets’, was that her words? If it was...  
She offered him a faint smile in return.   
“He’s never silent”, she stated calmly, but there was a strange flutter around the borders of her image. She had to concentrate to not let her emotions take over, and Solas was almost certain that he could sense a hint of fear. What was she afraid of?  
“Listen: it’s the cadence of a poem. Silence is just a tangible barrier, allowing dynamics to form between chaos and order”, Dirthara continued. “He generally alternates between two lines of iambic tetrameter and one line with six iambic feet.”  
Solas studied her in disbelief. Not that he thought her explanation of the dynamics between chaos and order were at fault, he was surprised by how she had described his own sound.  
A poem? Iambs? This was what he sounded like to her? Others had shivered in fear as they heard his beat, described it as the thunder of the unyielding rage mauling everything in its way.  
A poem. Solas felt warm and fuzzy on the inside. He liked that interpretation.  
Solas’ focus returned to the stranger, who now looked even more distant minded than before, his head slightly tilted as he listened. For a moment, everything around them stood still, even the flames in the fire. Solas crossed his arms and looked down at his own feet. All this attention was a bit overwhelming.  
The fear he had sensed in Dirthara’s vibrations, that must be the reason.  
She was afraid of this man?   
No… Something else. Solas began to read the scene, listened to the spirits in the still fire, the wind, the leaves and the trees.   
The fire spoke of heated arguments, the wind talked about unconditional love that swiftly drifted away with the first autumn storms and came back when the air was warmer. The leaves though, they said what he wanted to hear.   
This purpose would never hurt her, they whispered, this purpose only wanted knowledge.   
Solas sighed. What a relief.  
A moment later, the flames began to move again, the leaves rattled softly above their heads and the ocean roared in the distance. The man nodded slowly and stood up from his seat by the fire.   
Curious. The stranger wasn’t even trying to make the world around him seem realistic, and Solas got the strange feeling that he prefered it like that. His entire being was glowing with a pale blue light and he wasn’t affected by the fire in the scene; his hair kept moving, as if he was under water; and instead of walking on the ground, he was floating above it as he moved out from the circle of warm yellow light towards Solas.  
A bit flashy for Solas’ taste. Furthermore, glowing like that could be dangerous, attract unfriendly spirits. The stranger was obviously not a novice though, which made it difficult for Solas to figure out the his actual age. Too young to be careful or old enough to don’t care, young enough to still be fascinated by the Fade, but old enough to control his dream with ease.   
“Solas, I have heard of you”, the man said calmly as he stopped in front of him. “I am Gisharel Mathras Lavellan.”  
“Ah.” Solas exhaled. His eyes. Gisharel’s eyes had the same shape and color as Dirthara’s - even the intensity with which the man now studied him was similar. The name wasn’t new either. Not because Dirthara talked that much about her family; she had only mentioned her father once. No, Gisharel Mathras had emerged from an old memory. All the puzzle pieces fell to place and Solas could have smiled if his thoughts from before didn’t taint his mind. Gisharel - Dirthara’s father - was a dreamer, and spirits had a tendency to talk. Of course he knew, and of course Dirthara was nervous...

Dirthara  
Mythal help me, oh dear, crap-shit-fuck-buckets! As if it wasn’t enough with all these spirits whispering of passions of the flesh, insatiable desires and of the secrets sung with every sigh... Solas - the source of it all - just had to show up. She could sense Solas’ beat in the distance, and of course this meant vibrations. In her, in everything around her... Every emotion caused a flutter, but he induced a blasted turmoil. Not now, please not now! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Not when her father was here, not when...  
Because they whispered. By all things holy, it was just as Solas had said; they all whispered. She never heard them before, not until tonight, and this scene… Her focus was strained as it was to keep all the spirits busy reenacting the scene. The starlit sky above, the sound of the ocean in the distance, the scent of wood and earth. Solas’ beat made her think of His fragrance, and in an instance a whiff of leather and soap was added to the mix. She just hoped that her father didn’t notice.  
“You have grown, da’len”, her father murmured as he looked at the camp she had built up around them. “This is a masterful illustration. You even remembered Sulevin!”  
As if on cue, the old herbalist came out from his tent to empty his bladder behind a bush.   
Her memory of Clan Lavellan’s camp in Wycom was from five years back; of course Sulevin was a part of it. She still missed him, even though she never learnt all those remedies he tried to teach her. She had still been considered a child, was still allowed to run amok through the forests with Farras, and she remembered every tree as if it was only yesterday, but not a single one of Sulevin’s potions. Sad, really, that could have been useful.  
The leaves, Gisharel seemed to like them the most - coincidental or not, those were the spirits that whispered the loudest. She was so concentrated on keeping the backdrop alive, that she hardly dared to even offer Solas a reassuring smile when she sensed him outside their circle of light. He waited in the shadows, observed, and she could understand his confusion. She had been equally surprised when her father suddenly had appeared out of nowhere. She understood the reason, however. He must have heard of the attacks too, must have been looking for her. She was his only connection to the clan when he was away, and Dirthara wondered if he already had known where she was before he went searching.  
If so, he shouldn’t be too surprised to see Solas; he must have heard enough before he got here.  
When her father finally noticed him, she felt like throwing up. What would come next? Solas and Gisharel, face to face. The man she loved and her father measuring each other. None of them the violent type, but she was well aware of their capabilities. She tried to avert any kind of aggression by talking, making sure that any attention between the two was of the curious kind.  
It seemed to work.  
“Solas, I have heard of you”, her father finally said before he introduced himself. Dirthara saw how Solas tensed up.  
“Ah.” His back was as straight as a spear, but he managed to answer with one of those shy smiles that she just adored. “I knew you were a traveler in search for hidden histories, but nothing spoke of Gisharel the dreamer.”   
Solas turned his gaze to Dirthara, eyebrows lifted in a question. A moment later, she felt him capture her scene, embracing it to help her keep it up, and as always his magic and his melody was like the glyphs and barriers he shaped; a warm tingle on her skin. A reassuring little smirk spread on his lips. Words weren’t needed. He was her rock and she could finally relax, if only for a little while; he would keep the spirits busy describing every little detail of the camp. He perfectly illustrated the scents from the trees as it mingled with earth and sea; a cough from one of the aravels and a halla who lifted its head with surprise; kept it alive - he even managed to maintain the colors in just the right shades.   
Oh, how she loved him.  
Dirthara sighed and leaned her back against the tree trunk behind her. It had become easier to build these scenes, but it took a lot of her energy to keep the spirits whispering about the right things.  
Her father snickered and stretched his back with a sense of pride making him glow even brighter. “Gisharel the dreamer, that sounds…” He paused, mid sentence; not so strange. He had always done that - whatever happened in his head had always been prioritized. What made Dirthara’s heart skip a beat was his slightly furrowed brow as he began to study Solas with a focus that was rather uncommon.  
Solas, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice. He moved forward, into the circle of light. Gisharel followed in his footsteps, but with a thoughtful expression.  
He knew. Oh, shit-buckets.  
“The son of secrets”, father repeated slowly and seemed to focus on something else, something beyond their little bubble. “The pride of his house… You are much older than you look.”  
“As are you, slave of riddles”, Solas replied calmly. A tense stillness spread around them when the two men looked at each other.  
Dirthara studied them with confusion. They talked, as if they knew of one another. What was going on?  
The two men sat down in front of her, Solas on the ground and Gisharel floating around just above it. Dirthara observed them nervously.  
“Not a sentinel, but a priest”, Solas continued with a slight nod. “You awoke and left your flock.”  
“I woke up and Halamshiral had fallen”, Gisharel corrected him with a frown. “With Lindiranae fell the Dales.”  
Dirthara furrowed her brows and stared at her father. The Dales was lost to Orlais after the Second Blight, in the early Glory Age. That was a very long time ago. What on Thedas was he talking about? Solas didn’t look particularly confused, he stayed his mild-mannered self - even seemed slightly amused.  
“The Dales was the shattered memories of what was lost long before”, he stated. “A priest in sentinel armor following Dirth'ena enasalin should of course be aware of such things.”  
Gisharel flinched and glared at Solas. “War was never my purpose - Shartan was the warrior.”  
Shartan. Dirthara had read of him. The man who freed the elves from their shackles in Tevinter.  
“Ah. The liberator. The man man with the key.” Solas went silent for a moment, then snickered. “Yes, for a long time I too thought that he was nothing more than that.”   
“Small talk.” Gisharel made a dramatic gesture with his hands. “I didn’t come here for small talk.”  
Why did Dirthara get the impression that her father wasn’t enjoying this conversation? He loved history, would never miss a chance to discuss the subject, and now he was brushing it away as if it was dust.  
“Of course not.” Solas sighed and stretched his back. “Small talk is such a nuisance.”  
“And I’m not here to castigate you either, daughter”, Gisharel continued as if Solas never spoke, this time with his focus on Dirthara. “You are my only child and I had high hopes for you. Your mother and I fought so hard for your sake, and this is how you repay us?”  
Oh, no. Here it was. Whenever he started with ‘I’m not going to castigate you’, it usually meant the opposite. Even Solas paid close attention to Gisharel’s words; Dirthara noticed a small vibration in the fire in front of her.  
“You have abandoned yourself to all sorts of debauchery!” Her father’s voice rose an octave and he spoke so loud that the halla around the camp was startled and skipped away between the trees. “You do not further your people like this, you brand them!”  
She lowered her gaze to her hands in her lap and swallowed her anger. Farras’ words again. She wasn’t a child, and her people didn’t give a damn about her. Well, there wasn’t much to do but telling the truth.   
“Father, I might never return home.” She announced this as calmly as she could, even though the words were painful to say. She missed the clan, more than anything, but she had to be rational.   
“Ma harel, da’len.” Gisharel began to float around in wide circles as he preached over her in his best ‘non-castigating’ manner. “You’re following a path that leads astray, child. A path of violence and bloodshed. This is not a purpose to be proud of.”  
“I didn’t lie, but you are right: it is a brutal path”, Dirthara murmured, mostly to herself. “I might not even live to see the next spring.”  
Gisharel came to an abrupt halt and inhaled deeply; Dirthara noticed a flicker in the periphery of her view. When she looked up again, both men were looking at her with astonishment.   
“What?” Dirthara frowned and made a wide gesture with her hands. “It’s true, have none of you seen what’s at stake? I’m being realistic!”  
“Vehnan, I will not let…” Solas began, but he paused and closed his eyes as another flutter in the periphery made the trees change color. A faded green, pale and cold. “I can’t. Please don’t.”  
Oh.  
The loneliness within him shone through, and in an instant she wished that she could take those words back.  
Dirthara grunted and hid her face in her hands. “I am so sorry. I never meant it like that.”  
“And this. He called you vehnan. You know every beat in his song. He is not Dalish, can’t prove his heritage. This is immoral, goes against all our traditions”, Gisharel grumbled. “And I actually thought that you had changed. I see that I was wrong, as clear as day. You are still that spoilt girl that manipulates...”  
“We are not having this discussion now, father.” Dirthara interrupted, afraid that he might say something that she didn’t want Solas to hear. Besides, they had more important matters to attend to. She lifted her head and pinned Gisharel with her gaze. He continued to glare at her with his arms crossed over his chest.   
“It is done and there’s no going back. End of story”, Dirthara pointed out. “There is another story, however; one that I’m dying to hear. Why have you come? I haven’t heard a word from you in two years, and suddenly you are at my doorstep.”  
A long pause occurred, while Dirthara and her father stared at each other. Gisharel finally lowered his gaze and landed on one of the fallen tree trunks by the fire.  
“Deshanna is in danger, is she not?” He whispered and clasped his hands in his lap.   
Deshanna. Her mother. Well, the very formal letter in her pocket didn’t speak of motherly love. Dirthara bit down on the curses on her tongue.  
“Yes, the entire clan is in danger, father.” Dirthara realized that her tone had been rather short and made sure her voice was calmed when she added:   
“I have sent skirmishers to assist, they will arrive in a couple of days.”  
Another disturbance in the scene, this time it was the leaves that began to rattle uncontrollably.


	28. Crestwood

Solas

A few hectic days passed, where the only glimpse Solas had of her was when she passed him in the rotunda. The nights were busy too; Gisharel kept showing up in their dreams, and if his continuous scolding wasn’t enough to put a strain on their relationship, he was the sordine that kept them leashed. In Solas’ case, he saw this as a statement of the age gap between them - he wasn’t hounded by annoying parents, because… well, they were dead. If he had been young and they had been alive though... The stilted traditions of the aristocracy was strangely one of the few things the Dalish had managed to maintain since the days before the fall, and he recognized and remembered some of the key elements of convenance from his own adolescence with annoyance. For example, how he and Dirthara was supposed to talk to one another. He was an elder without titles, should be addressed accordingly; Dirthara was a young woman from a long line of mages, unmarried and at the ripe age for arranged bonds to be made. He already knew that he wasn’t a strategic choice for her, and even though Dirthara protested and argued with her father every night in the Fade, it was rubbed in his face over and over again. What disturbed him the most was that he agreed, to such an extent that he had returned to spend his nights in the rotunda. It annoyed him that these restraints still held him down, they were a sinister form of mental dominance, which in all fairness afflicted Dirthara’s life more than his.  
Yes, well, Solas wasn’t being objective either. He didn’t like Gisharel a thousand years earlier, disliked him immensely now. He had been pompous and flamboyant then, despite the fact that he never had anything to show for it; except for knowledge, of course; and even though he had gathered more of it for the last millennia, he was still just booksmart. In Tevinter, he had been a temple slave, climbed the ranks because of what he knew and lived a comfortable life. He never needed a slave rebellion and didn’t pick a side, at least not until afterwards. Chaos had been his ladder, but his motive had been vanity.  
Solas began to avoid the space in the Fade where Dirthara’s dreams emerged, because that was where Gisharel usually showed up eventually. He noticed quite soon though that he didn’t need to stay away - he couldn’t hear her, and by that he could be certain that her father couldn’t hear her either. It didn’t take long for him to understand why. That restless behaviour from when he got to know Dirthara back in Haven - her feet were yet again dancing to an unheard beat and her eyes darted around as if she was being hunted - it was back, and that was how he knew. Varric only fortified his suspicion when he confirmed that Dirthara’s meeting with ‘you-know-who’ had passed unnoticed, because it had been held at night on the ramparts; the same when Solas heard from one of his own spies that the Inquisitor had been seen conspiring with the Avvar during late nights, at their camp outside Skyhold.  
She wasn’t sleeping.  
And, of course this restless behaviour found shape in her other actions too.  
He knew that it was Dirthara that entered his room that morning, as usual because of her rather aggressive way of opening the door before entering. He turned around from his desk to meet her and was surprised to see her dressed in armor.  
“I am leaving for Crestwood to search for the Gray Wardens, I thought you should know”, she stated calmly, but her chin was lifted and her eyes were glowing with defiance. “Sera, Dorian and Blackwall is coming with me.”  
“Dirthara…” Solas sighed and shook his head. “Yes, of course.”  
She turned around on one heel and left without another word.  
“...Just promise to be careful”, Solas murmured as the door to the rotunda slammed shut behind her. He knew that she had a lot on her mind and that she pushed him away for that reason, but it was unnerving to not being able - or in this case not allowed - to be close enough to make sure she was safe. It made him nervous, unfocused and short tempered.

And his annoyance was hardly eased when Dirthara’s father showed up in the flesh at the gates that same noon. Solas was informed and asked to greet him, plastered one of his most agreeable faces on and walked down the stairs to the lower yard. Gesharel was not as striking in person as he’d been in the Fade, but he still wore the armor of the sentinels and his hair was kept in perfect waves over his shoulders. Very unpractical with all that hair; if he ever was interested in the ancient practices, he should know that hair was…  
Oh.  
Solas stopped at the top of the stairs and studied the scene below him. Gesharel was surrounded by a large flock of women; all ages, all backgrounds but mainly young circle mages; and he liked the attention.  
“This used to be a place of importance for my people”, Solas could hear him say with a soft, slightly distant voice as he shook his head with sadness in his eyes. “At least the magic remains in this place.”  
“It must have been beautiful”, one of the mages said with starry eyes. “It is sad that the memories have been lost to the ages.”  
“Tarasyl'an Te'las. The place where the ancient Vallasdahlen of Mythal once grew”, Gesharel said and nodded slowly in agreement. “It used to be magnificent, overlooking the border of the Dales, resting on the path between Orlais and Ferelden - well, it wasn’t Ferelden yet. The Dales will never forget.”  
Yes. How very… Dalish of him to talk of things he knew nothing about. Firstly, the tree was a sign of peace, from long before Arlathan, not a symbol of the Dales as the word ‘vallasdahlen’ indicated.  
Secondly, it wasn’t Mythal who planted it, it was the people - elves, humans and dwarves - who did, and it was sanctified by Dirthamen for a long life.  
Thirdly, the fortress hadn’t been built until centuries after the elves returned to their promised land, and it showed. The fortifications wore all the signs of Ferelden architecture from Calenhad’s days.   
Yes, yes. He wasn’t all wrong. The main building and the garden, the rotunda with the rookery - sure, it had been there. It had been his home, before…  
Hm. Right. That was not something he’d like to talk about, especially not with… eh… the inlaws? Ugh, Dalish, what had he gotten himself into...  
Solas decided to let that peacock of a man remain ignorant and cleared his throat to gain his attention.  
Gisharel looked up and managed to hide a frown behind a courteous smile. “Ah, Master Solas. The inconspicuous retainer of the Inquisitor. Now, where can I find her, the apple of my eye, my most precious gem - my daughter. I need to speak with her.”  
And then, as Gisharel moved through the crowd towards the stairs where Solas stood waiting, the whispers began among the women:  
“The Inquisitor is his daughter?”  
“I can see the semblance.”  
“Yes, they are both very fair to look at…”  
(Giggles)  
“The Dalish. They are so dignified.”  
Solas could have sighed and rolled his eyes at that last comment; in most cases, the Dalish were nothing but barbarians who attacked travelers on sight. The Lavellan clan was one of few exceptions.  
“Ah, Gisharel, the husband of Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan. I am sorry to announce that the Inquisitor is away on business”, Solas replied with an excessive bow. The malicious delight he felt when his words sank in and the women around Gisharel lost interest and sneaked off one by one was only challenged by that feeling of petty victory when he saw that peacock of a man lose his face. Anger. That was pure anger, and - as Solas had been very keen to make sure of - no obvious reason for it. This could be very amusing.  
“She will not return for at least a week”, he added innocently, “Would you prefer to wait, or do you have other plans?”

Sadly, Gisharel didn’t see this as a reason to leave. Solas was ceremonious enough to give him the tour and ended it by introducing him to Lady Enchanter Vivienne, something he did out of spite rather than with good intentions. From his perspective, they were birds of a feather, but while Gisharel proudly presented his dislike of humans, Vivienne did the same regarding the Dalish. Solas excused himself and left them to themselves in the middle of an intensive conversation about the Circles and could only hope that they’d lecture each other to death.

He never expected what presented itself the day after. It was Leliana that pointed it out on her way from the kitchen to the rookery.  
“That annoying little man - the Inquisitor’s father - Gisharel, was that his name?” A conspiratorial grin spread on her lips. “You should have a look in the grand hall.”  
Solas stood up from his chair by the desk and did what she had asked while she stayed behind. ”What am I supposed to look for?” he asked, but didn’t have to wait for an answer. He heard Vivienne talk loudly with an elderly aristocratic man who seemed to be a bit hard of hearing:   
“Absolutely charming, dear. And your grandson?...No, GRANDSON…”  
Solas opened the door a bit more and could soon enough see the enchanter.  
“Have you noticed Vivienne’s new pet?” Leliana snickered.   
Ah. There he was. Laughing when she laughed, as if on cue.  
Solas snorted. Wherever Vivienne walked, Gisharel came in her footsteps like a leashed dog. A very handsome one, Solas had to admit; groomed and polished for the dog show; but still subservient to her whims.   
“Yes, thick as thieves!” He pointed out before he turned around and closed the door. “May they both learn…”  
Leliana shook her head and made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Solas, don’t be rude.”  
“Rude?” Solas lifted his brows in a surprised manner. “I am being very reasonable.”  
Leliana responded with a smile and a wink before she turned her back against him and hurried up the stairs to the rookery.

And whether they learnt anything from each other or not, it really didn’t matter. To Solas’ surprise, Vivienne and Gisharel seemed to really enjoy each other's company, which meant that they at least stayed out of his hair.  
Figuratively speaking, of course.   
Solas came up with a rather crass explanation to their budding friendship: Vivienne liked to order others around while Gisharel always had been and always would remain a slave at heart.  
Yes, well, and they were both Arcane Warriors. Albeit from different schools, but what did it matter? Maybe they found it amusing to discuss fighting styles, what could he say? Solas had more important things to take care of.

Dirthara  
“This place sucks druffalo balls.” Sera, who had wrapped an old coat made of a piece of waxed sail around her against the heavy rain, gave a perfectly innocent pebble a rather irritated kick. “I swear, if I wanted to smell the arse of some beggar in a back alley in Denerim...”  
“...You’d have stayed in some back alley in Denerim.” Dirthara nodded. She was not even going to pretend that she was in a good mood, because so far she hated Crestwood.   
“This is insane. I have never seen so many undead at the same time”, she muttered and pulled the brim of her coat up to her ears. “Actually, that beggar’s arse sounds pretty tempting, Sera. Do you, perchance, have his address?”  
“That certainly sounds like a dream holiday, love, but save it for later.” Dorian gave her a light tap on her back. “While you wait, could I interest you in some Fereldan cheese? It’s smelly, moldy and straight ahead.”  
“Fereldan cheese…” Dirthara chuckled and looked further up the road, and as sure as the foot of a mule: a whole horde of undead was coming their way. “Sera, watch out for brain matter, their heads will pop like pimples.”  
Sera made a retching sound and cursed as Dirthara grabbed the staff from her back and let the fire dance in her hand.  
And as she moved forward towards the top of the hill beyond which the road disappeared, she was something that made her stop in her tracks.  
Oh, Crap.  
A rage demon.  
Think fast, think fast, think fast!  
“Blackwall, take the left flank. Sera, back him up, I see archers.” Dirthara let the wildfire in her hand go, straight into the middle of the horde of corpses. Blackwall rushed forward with a roar and Dirthara could hear the twang from Sera’s bow as she let her arrows fly like little silent birds of prey.   
“Dorian, you’re coming with me, we need to deal with... that thing.” She pointed vaguely with her staff in the general direction of where that huge blob of fiery lava slithered about.  
Slithered, could one say that? Whatever.  
“Eh… Inquisitor?” Dorian stopped beside her with a fire spell glowing in the hand he held lifted in front of him. The sizzling sound of the flame mixed with the clanks of metal clashing with metal where Blackwall was involved in a duel with a heavily armored corpse. “If you haven’t noticed, that there is a rage demon. It’s fire resistant. If you don’t mix up something frosty right away, we’re doomed.”  
Dirthara’s heart skipped a beat. “Double Crap.” Typical. As a demon wasn’t enough; it had to be fire resistant.  
She knew that. Of course she did, it was just… She always relied on Solas, his wards and spells. Of course she would need him now, when her mind needed some distance from him.  
Something frosty.  
The pulse in her ears made it hard for her to concentrate.  
Ice. Did she know any offensive spells with that element? No, the only spell she had with the element of ice in it was...  
Ah. Yes! That might actually just work! Dirthara grinned.  
“Do you know how to fade step, Dorian?”  
Dorian muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like a long line of profanities. “Naturally. So the plan is to run straight through it a couple of times?”  
“Naturally.” Dirthara turned her head and smiled. “Think frosty thoughts.”  
Dorian met her glance and grunted. “If I had known that you were completely insane… Yes, yes. Let’s do it. But if I die, it’s on you.”  
“Well then.” Yes, that would have to suffice, at least until Sera and Blackwall were done. Dirthara took a deep breath and ran with the icy winds of winter in her tail, remembered what Solas had said about attracting spirits by being innovative. She pictured a snowstorm, felt the wind whisper around her, and just a second later she stood on the other side of the demon with a long track of frost on the ground behind her. She turned around just in time to see Blackwall fell one corpse with his grappling chain and smack another one in the face with his shield. Sera’s arrows flew with precision; the undead surrounding Blackwall was beginning to look like moving pin cushions.  
The rage demon turned around and began to move towards Dirthara. It was covered in rime, but not frozen solid.  
“Damn it.” Dirthara let her staff dance, fired off spell after spell but without much effect. The demon was just about to lean over her when she ran straight through it once more, and this time she visualized a blizzard. The coldness of that night when she fled Haven; the ice, like needles prickling the skin of her face… A moment later, she was back by Dorian’s side.  
“I’ll be damned, it worked!” He laughed out loud and let a spell fly out of his hand. Ice cubes.  
“Dorian, we’re not mixing drinks here”, she muttered and turned around to look at the demon behind her. It wasn’t fully frozen, but stuck to the ground in a thin layer of slowly melting frost and snow. Dorian’s ice cubes flew right through it, but left small white marks on its surface. Dirthara shrugged. “I would have prefered a frosted glass, but if it works it works...”   
“Frosted glass…” Dorian snorted. “Now that’s a challenge.”   
They would hardly defeat the demon like this; their spells were insufficient for this matter, but as long as they managed to keep the it busy long enough for Blackwall and Sera to clear out the corpses, it would do. As a desperate move, inspired by Dorian’s ice cubes, Dirthara remembered a spell she had used for food preservation back in the Lavellan clan. The ice with salt took shape in her hand and the chemical reaction made smoke appear around her hand in the warm air. She fired the spell away with all the force she could muster, but only managed to hurl chunks of it a couple of feet forward. Dirthara glared at the slowly melting ice on the ground before her.  
“Think of it as a firebolt”, Dorian said between clenched jaws, and Dirthara realized that he was having just as much problem focusing on all the little details in his hodgepodge spell as she did.  
This was stupid.  
“Ah, don’t you just love these outings in the wild?” Dirthara muttered. “You meet such lovely people.”   
Well, at least this was better than her alternative… She had panicked and left Skyhold in a hurry when her father had said that he was on his way. Dirthara could only imagine the situation back home right now; the chemistry between Gisharel and Solas was of the agressively reactive type. They were both prone to avoid confrontation, so of course they would keep it civil, but the ambience around them would be frostier than that smoke rising from her chunks of ice on the ground. She was too restless to stay under those circumstances and would probably have done something very ill advised just to get the results she wanted.  
“A fire bolt.” Dirthara repeated slowly and tried to figure out what it was he had meant. If she put more force behind the spell…?   
It caused the ice to explode out of her hand, but the explosion made it burst into millions of snowflakes. “Damn it.”  
“Keep the explosion closer to you skin.” Dorian’s ice cubes flew through the air, but not with the same precision as his fire spells. Some of them were sprayed on the ground around him. “And don’t tell me that my aim is off.”  
“Your aim is a bit off, Dorian.” Dirthara smirked.  
There was a reason for that though. This was not a material that they were used to. There should be a way to...  
Wait. if she added a dash of entropy in the mix, couldn’t that suck the very life force out of ...that thing? Some paralyzation - that was the first spell she ever learnt in self defense - then the ice and the explosion? She had to concentrate hard to let it take shape in her hand. A green hue, the same sickly green as in her scar of veilfire, surrounded a huge chunk of ice in her hand before she fired it off with an explosion.  
A little green cloud took form above the demon and snowflakes began to fall.  
“Yes, that will certainly make him think twice before meddling with us”, Dorian jeered.  
Dirthara replied with a rude gesture, but was interrupted by a howl of pain.   
“Blackwall!” She turned with a spell ready in her hand, screamed when she saw him topple over under a flood of undead. She unleashed a massive explosion of fire without even thinking - at least that spell came naturally to her. The flames spread from corpse to corpse, but Blackwall was unharmed.  
“I’m fine, Inquisitor”, he grunted and returned to his feet, grabbed a potion from his belt and quaffed it while Dirthara shot a firebolt into the midst of the already burning corpses that now was tumbling into each other like drunkards on their way home after a particularly rough night.  
“Inquisitor, watch out!” Dorian grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side just as she was about to place a fire mine between the horde and Blackwall, and not a moment too soon. The rage demon was out of her ice spell. She saw in the periphery how it rolled forward on the spot where she had been standing just a second earlier. Dorian and Dirthara locked eyes.   
“Think of something frosty”, Dorian said with a smirk.  
This time, both of them ran. They left a wide trail of frost behind them and Dirthara laughed when she turned around again, ready to fight. The demon was completely encapsulated inside a large chunk of ice.  
“What on earth did you think of Dorian?” she asked, out of breath.   
“Family dinners”, Dorian replied. “Let’s concentrate on those blighters around Blackwall while we wait for Mr. Bonfire to melt, shall we?”  
“We don’t make much of a difference here”, Dirthara agreed.

They reached the village of Crestwood late in the evening and were by then drenched from top to bottom, out of potions and covered in all the disgusting things they’d managed to pass on the way. The rain was still pouring, the inn was crowded, and this time the people there matched Dirthara’s illusion of places with names related to the ocean. Lake Calenhad was a common sea route for merchants, but the rowdy bunch in the dining hall was of other stock.  
“We should order something to eat and stay the night”, Dirthara decided anyway, but almost regretted saying that out loud when a bar fight was triggered by some men playing cards in the corner.  
“Gray Wardens”, Blackwall muttered.  
Dorian sighed and rolled with his eyes. “I can't imagine why more people don't join the Wardens!”  
“You have something to say, mage?” Blackwall turned around and glared at Dorian.  
Dorian shook his head with a deceivingly innocent look on his face. “If I had something to say, I'd say it.”  
“That's it?” Blackwall crossed his arms over his chest. “I'd expect more from a man who can't stop talking about how clever he is.”  
“And I'd expect no less from a brutish thug.” Dorian smiled courteously and made a gesture towards the men who now had returned to their card game. They were, however, still giving each other looks that could kill across the table. “Ah, see? Some grunts - it’s all that’s needed.”  
“Brutish thug?” Blackwall took one step forward. “Better that than a pompous brat.”  
Dirthara shook her head and exchanged a glance with Sera. “Boys, come on. If we're going to fight, let’s at least do it on the same side.”  
Dorian pouted and turned away from Blackwall with his arms crossed over his chest. “Tell that to mister barely concealed envy issues!”  
“Oh, dear. Did the nasty warden hurt your feelings?” Dirthara sighed. “I’m not your mother, Dorian. Solve it.”  
Sera chuckled. “You two are such men.”  
“Well, I'm a man.” Blackwall gave Dorian an insinuating grin. “Unlike some.”  
“Best pound your chest a bit harder so nobody doubts.” Dorian turned his head and lifted one eyebrow. “I bet your friends in the corner didn’t hear you.”  
Dirthara began to laugh out loud, which caused the rest of her party to stop whatever they were doing just to look at her with confusion.  
“Such camaraderie!” she explained and couldn’t contain yet another burst of laughter. This was silly - she had left Skyhold to avoid arguments and had chosen to bring friends that never agreed upon anything to a mission that was easily one of the most disturbing ones she’d been on. “You act like little boys, both of you.”  
“I apologize, Inquisitor”, Blackwall grumbled and looked down at his feet.  
Dirthara waved away his apology with a grin. “We are all hungry, tired and miserable. I bet a hot meal, some dry clothes and a couple of glasses of wine over a game of Wicked Grace would solve this.”  
“But Lord Pavus cheats…” Blackwall made a sour face.  
“Loosen up a bit, Blackwall.” Dorian winked. “She’s right, though. A couple of glasses of wine would solve this. Truce?”  
“Truce.” Blackwall didn’t seem to capitulate, but in Dirthara’s mind this would have to count as a win.

And she had been right. After a meal consisting of a rather uninteresting stew - she could almost swear to all the gods that she didn’t even know what was in it - bread and cheese, they were all in a better mood.  
Well, that was an overstatement.  
“I have to ask the chef for the recipe.” Dorian wrinkled his nose and dropped his spoon into his bowl of stew with a splash. “No, wait. I won’t need to; Fereldan cuisine involves throwing all the ingredients in a pot and cooking them for as long as possible, until everything looks grey, bland, and unappetizing.”   
“Eh, it beats being hungry”, Sera grunted. On the other hand, she had just taken her second serving, so she probably liked this dish a bit more than she was portraying.  
Dirthara smiled, and this scene around the table made her think. She should not dream about her own death this night. She should find Solas and talk to him.


	29. Confessions of a milder kind

Solas

“So Lord Pavus was partially right”, Solas murmured as he turned the page Leliana had given him. “Could you please tell me, Lady Nightingale, if there is a possibility to get our hands on that scroll Enchanter Renaud mentions?” Solas looked up from the letter and returned it to Leliana’s outstretched hand.  
Leliana folded the letter and gave the shard on Solas’ desk an evaluating glance. “Do you really think it is of importance?”  
Solas stood up from his chair and stretched his back with a sigh. “These Oculara were made from the skulls of tranquil mages and the technique used is of Tevinter origin. The Venatori seek these shards... I want to know where they lead, what it is that they are looking for.”  
Leliana nodded slowly. “They know what it is and thinks it’s worth their time to pursue it. You are right.” She turned around quickly and walked towards the door. “I think Josephine could get this for a fair price, even on an auction.”  
Solas yawned and rubbed his eyes. It was late, again. Maybe it was time to get some sleep; he couldn’t achieve much here anyway. The few books he had found on Oculara and the use of them didn’t give him any answers, hopefully he’d be luckier with that scroll. For some strange reason, he hadn’t found anything of it in the Fade, as if it was a well hidden secret. There were few things in this world that stayed hidden from the spirits, but tranquil and dwarves were more or less invisible to them. That would at least explain the craftsmanship behind the shards.  
Solas threw himself in the couch and grabbed the blanket on the way. It still wore Her scent, and he almost felt embarrassed for the images that popped into his head. Almost. He slipped into his slumber with a grin on his face, and the hue of lilies of the valley followed. He knew what he would dream of and he hoped she didn’t mind.  
To his surprise, the scent of Dirthara grew stronger in his dream, but he could neither hear or see her. His usual spot in the Fade since they reached Skyhold; a study with books in piles on the desk and on the floor, walls covered in murals (one unfinished), a fireplace with a constantly burning fire; it all looked and felt just like it always did, but he could sense a presence. He realized why, with a hint of fear, when she materialized from thin air in front of him.  
“Will he hear us here?”, she asked and spun around before she stopped to just listen. Was it really her or just an image? He had after all been thinking of her the last thing he did when he fell asleep… Everything about her felt real; she stood there dressed in her usual white coat but bare feet, her toes digging themselves into the carpet as he’d seen her do before, but how…?  
Solas shook his head slowly. “I have warded this place. How did you find it?”  
Dirthara shrugged and gave him a quizzical look. “I listened? If you want me to leave I can…”  
“No, no, that is not what I meant.” Solas hurried forward the few steps that were between them and pulled her into his arms. “I was just startled.” He breathed in her scent and felt how his entire being became calmer.  
Dirthara muttered something against his shoulder and put her arms around him, tugged him closer; almost desperately; then sighed.   
Solas chuckled. “My heart.” Too overwhelmed to utter anything else, he just held her, cold stay like this for a million years.  
And then she lifted her head and looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Solas.”  
“For what?” He studied her face curiously, and realized that she was serious. Had something happened?  
Dirthara hesitated for a moment, but didn’t look away. When she finally spoke, her voice was weak and small. “Have you ever felt the darkness inside you grow beyond yourself and you just shrink into nothing?”  
Solas froze. Yes, about that. The darkness. How she had managed to appear so abruptly inside his wards. She wasn’t just a Dalish girl playing with fire; he needed to remember that.  
“Yes, I have”, he replied after a short pause, “Dirthara, has something happened?”  
Dirthara hesitated, then shook her head. “No, I just need to explain to you why I left Skyhold in such a hurry.”  
Solas lifted his hand and stroked her cheek, relieved that it wasn’t something worse. “You have a lot on your plate and…”  
“No, Solas, it’s...” Dirthara furrowed her brows and grabbed his hand. “I need you to listen carefully, because… Because how can I love when I’m this afraid to fall?”  
Solas’ heart fell heavy to the bottom of his stomach.  
Yes. Of course she was having second thoughts. It was only rational, this dream was nothing but that - just a dream. Her father; he had been very intrusive, and in every advanced society he would be right. Solas looked away and let his hands drop, was just about to take a step back from her when she grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face close to hers, forcefully pressed her lips against his. And she clung onto him as if she really was about to fall, and of course it would hurt, because she would take him higher than he’d ever been before and Solas was reminded of how perfectly she fit in his arms, how the shape of her was meant for the shape of him like a piece in a puzzle. Stars and planets around him and she was his sun, and when she broke the kiss his head was spinning and she was breathing heavily. Eyes closed, just a breath away, little silent promises.  
“Mir nehn, ma lath bellanaris…” she whispered, “don’t you even dare to question my love for you.”  
Solas shook his head, promised that he wouldn’t, could have promised her anything for those words alone, ’my joy, my eternal love’. The taste of her lips just a reminder of how lost he was in her, and then the words that made him fall again.   
“Just let go. I will catch you”, he murmured, because he had always caught her before, through the millennias. He was weaker now, but she was but a whisp and she had changed.  
“I can’t, Solas, I just… if you knew that side of me…” She swallowed. “It’s like a beast trying to break out, and when it does…”  
“It devours you in a fit of rage and you wish that you had never been born”, Solas ended her sentence. He knew, all too well - he still fought his beasts on a regular basis. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. Dirthara stared back at him in surprise.   
Solas snickered. “Yes, yes. You are right. We need to talk.” He let go of her, bade her to sit down with a gesture towards a pile of large pillows on the floor by the fireplace. Just like that first night when she visited him in Haven, Dirthara sat down beside him - well, a bit closer now than that night - stretched her legs towards the fire and wiggled her toes. Just like he had done that time too, he studied her profile, wondered if his former self would have believed him if he had told him about a not so distant future, that this girl would become one of the most powerful women in Thedas and that she still would choose him. Probably not, this was one reality among many. She could have been a ruthless ruler…  
Which led him back to the subject that they were about to discuss. Solas cleared his throat. “You described a darkness that you can’t contain, that it grows bigger than you...”  
“It is easier to keep it tethered now than it has been before”, Dirthara replied with a slow nod and a sigh. “Anund said that it might be a spirit…”  
“The Avvar know more than most when it comes to spirits, and Anund is partially right.” Solas paused to let his words sink in. He needed to keep her calm, or this truth would be devastating.  
Yes, if he told her all of it…  
“It is not just a spirit, it is your spirit”, Solas continued.   
Dirthara nodded slowly and Solas was surprised that she managed to stay this composed.  
“It has been with me since birth”, she replied and turned her head to meet his glance. “My parents gave me my name as a reminder. To learn from my mistakes and seek the truth.”  
“You have very wise…” Solas swallowed the word ‘parents’ when an image of Gisharel passed as a glimpse in his mind. Well, he wouldn’t call that man stupid, but at least ignorant.  
Dirthara snickered. She must have understood what he was about to say and realized why he never ended that sentence.   
“You are very wise, and your name is Solas”, she pointed out. “You do at least know what you are and what you might become.”  
Solas chuckled. “My parents were also very wise.”  
A smile spread on Dirthara’s lips, and Solas understood that his name was something she had been thinking of for a long time. Then her smile disappeared and a small wrinkle took shape between her eyebrows.  
“They were?”  
Solas felt a flutter in his stomach. He had a tendency to let his guard down around Dirthara, which was reckless. He knew that she was more observant than most. To notice what tense he used for one single word and draw conclusions…  
“Yes, they passed away a long time ago”, he replied and hoped that this would be enough.  
Dirthara hesitated for a moment, and Solas knew that behind those beautiful eyes her mind was putting everything he had said in place. If her head was anything like her journals, she kept every thought filed in meticulous order - probably alphabetical or according to a timeline. Maybe both.   
“Ir abelas, ma vhenan”, she finally whispered and placed one of her hands on his knee. Solas enfolded her cold fingers in his. “Ma serannas.”  
“Now it feels heartless to ask…” Dirthara shook her head with a sigh and turned her face towards the fire again. The warm light reflected in her eyes and Solas was yet again struck by how lucky he was. She was both beautiful and perceptive, could have chosen anyone, and yet she chose him. All he ever had was lost to him a very long time ago; he had nothing to offer. Varric’s words when he described what a woman was - the reason for a man’s strives to become a better person - rang clear in his mind. The dwarf had been right. Solas wanted to be everything she needed him to be, and yet she asked for so little.  
“As I said. It was a long time ago”, Solas said and gave her hand a light squeeze. “Ask.”  
Dirthara inhaled, then she held her breath. “What am I, Solas?”  
Solas’ heart skipped a beat. How was he to truthfully tell her ‘who’ rather than ‘what’ resided in her? She was Dalish, it would be too much to bear.  
Vague. He had to be vague. She would probably find the answer on her own later in life, and the hunt would be valuable to her.  
“Both you and your father carry spirits of purpose”, Solas replied slowly. “Spirits follow bloodlines, stay where they feel familiar.”  
Which was why he once had asked himself if she could be his kin. His own granddaughter, several generations removed. A disturbing thought, but still a possibility. She could come from a different line; his brother or one of his sisters; and even though that felt strange to think about, it was better than the first alternative. This body that he had chosen was biologically a distant cousin to her, one way or another, just like her spirit was related to his.  
“Ah.” Dirthara shook her head and snickered. “All your talk about purpose and desire… That was your reason.”  
Solas pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “You have a very old and powerful spirit, a complex purpose that goes beyond the little things in life. It is however how you perceive it that makes the difference.”  
“That was why I had to leave.” Dirthara crawled closer, rested her cheek against his chest and put her arms around his waist. “I was becoming restless, and I do horrible things…”  
“You find a purpose and channel your energy.” Solas kissed her hair and chuckled. “I told you that you needed to keep a journal.”  
Dirthara grunted. “So you knew, from the very beginning.”  
“No, I assumed, from your strong connection to the Void.” Solas noticed a moment too late that he had said more than he needed. “You were difficult to keep alive”, he added, as if an afterthought, and with those words he came to another conclusion. He could have lost her then and there, and nothing that had happened after that would have been the same. He cupped her chin and lifted her face just to look at her.  
“What would I have done without you?” he murmured and leaned in, his forehead touching hers, closed his eyes. “Thank you.”  
“For what?” she whispered, as her hand trailed up over his chest to his neck.  
“For being you.” Solas’ voice wavered from the tension of overwhelming feelings. He wasn’t good with feelings. They were always too much. His lips brushed against hers gently, a composed outlet, but then her lips parted under his; warm, wet, soft, a taste of turnip and carrot, Fereldan beer; the tip of her tongue sent shivers down his spine and the beast was jumping at the bars in its cage.

Dirthara

She wasn’t brave enough, not this time either. Let herself trail off to talk about more interesting things, but it was too easy. She loved listening to him talk. The moment she disappeared into his warm embrace and his scents of moss, leather and soap, paid attention to his soothing voice reverberating in his chest as it blended with his even heartbeat and that cadence that was Solas and nobody else, every little ache was forgotten. And then his lips found hers and he ignited everything inflammable inside of her. Every nerve end needed to feel his touch and she wanted to examine every little piece of him with all her senses. A taste of lavender tea on his tongue and lips, salt on his skin. His approving hum when she got out of his lap just to straddle him, which soon was followed by annoyed grunts when his fingers were losing the battle against the many buttons in her coat and vest. Muttered curses, muffled by her lips over his when the shirt under that had even more buttons. And as she tried to undo them with trembling fingers, his hands left her skin burning. Outside of her layers of clothes, along thighs and buttocks and hips; too impatient to wait, this was apparently a perfectly decent arrangement as long as Solas didn’t have to deal with the bloody buttons. The scent of winter and old books in his calloused hands, melting snow, resin and pine forests in his neck behind his ears; he was like a memory of the Frostbacks, shaped into a living being. Her fingertips became her eyes where she couldn’t see, trailed over the soft skin on his back along sinewy muscles as she pulled the tunic over his head. The surprised chuckle when she pushed him to the floor, a sound of satisfaction when she threw her shirt away and another one when his hands found her bare skin. The roughness of his palms a tickling sensation that gave her goosebumps when he cupped her breasts, flashes of electricity rushing through her every nerve when he rolled her nipples into hard knots between his fingers. The awareness of his hard phallus pressing against her through layers of cloth. No words were ever really spoken, it wasn’t needed. Her faster beat mixed with his, followed his jambs and gave them an accent. Dirthara leaned down and her lips found his again; hungry and insatiable as if addicted, slowly rubbing herself against him, their shallow breaths mixed with sighs of pleasure. Everything hushed, as if the burning logs in the fireplace beside them had a dampening impact, the contrast of light and shadow intensifying every action. Solas’ fingers trailing along the waistband of her pants, unstrapping her belt, finding another set of buttons. A mild frustration marked with another moan which had Dirthara snickering, but then she realized the stupidity of their entire situation and began to laugh. She sat up again, looked down at him, panting through a smile and let her fingers play over his chest and belly. As before, surprised but appreciating the fact that he was built like an athlete despite being a mage who spent most of his time in the company of books.  
“Why did we even imagine clothes at all?” She whispered.  
Shallow breath, his heartbeat a steady pulse just under her fingertips, the red and yellow lights from the fire reflecting in his eyes as he furrowed his brows with a grin. “Good question. I could just snap my fingers…”  
“Yes, this is your dream, I don’t doubt that for a second.” Dirthara lifted her arms over her head and began to let out her hair, one ringlet at the time as she removed the hairpins slowly without breaking eye contact. “But I think you enjoy the unwrapping...”  
His hands undoing the buttons in her pants, just as slowly as she let her hair out was something of a confirmation, but he rolled his eyes and grunted when that only gave access to another couple of square inches of skin. Solas sat up without another word, grabbed her by the neck and pulled her closer, caught her lips with his again. Hard, demanding, and in one fast move that had Dirthara yelp with surprise, he had her pinned down to the pillows on the floor. The hairpins flew out of her grasp, his hungry kisses had her lose her breath, his greedy hands over her naked skin made her shiver, and before she knew it, he was inside her pants with fingers as gentle as the touch of a butterfly. Electrical discharges that made every limb burn with fever, forced little cries of pleasure out of her throat that were muted into moans by his lips, tongue, teeth. She clawed at the waistband of his pants through a red haze of sensations, pulled the strap that held them up, fumbled with the knots, a quivering desperation to have him inside of her, anticipation only egging her passion further. Hips rolling against his hand beyond her control, muscles tense, every hitched breath a swallowed scream as bolts of heat rushed through her body in more and more frequent convulsions. A threat or a curse to the straps in his pants, just a mumble between gasps; “Ah… Fen'Harel ma halam-mmh...”; had Solas chuckle and bite her bottom lip, and with a snap of his fingers his last piece of clothing was removed. The smooth skin of his hard erection against her hipbone, the long sigh that escaped him when she firmly put her fingers around it, the sensation of excitement when he became even harder in her hand as she slowly stroked him up and down along his length, his fingers strumming her as if she was a lute... All of it building up to an explosion that had her wailing, spasms through her every limb, stars before her eyes, forgetting everything around her except for the sensations of bliss mixed with need. She wanted him more than she ever had wanted anything else, and she wanted him now, but as usual he made her wait. He pushed her further as always, the next explosion just a breath away, a tremor before an earthquake that swallowed her whole, and with every breath a more intense eruption than the one before until she found it hard to breathe, asked him to stop, begged him, even though she knew he wouldn’t listen; couldn’t contain herself in her own body. Detonation after detonation, white light all around her, then that final cataclysm that had her falling, falling, falling. When he finally removed his hand, she was nothing more but a wreck, every beat of her pulse had her shivering; she hardly noticed how he removed her pants and kneeled between her legs, but the sensation of him entering her… He moved slowly, and yet every little friction against the clasping muscles inside of her had her drowning in her own excitement. Every nerve end overcharged with new explosions with every heartbeat, contractions that made her gasp for air and shiver. Too lost in herself, she barely noticed his mouth over hers; predatory, wet; licked her skin, then a strange combination of pain mixed with pleasure had her overwhelmed when he sank his teeth into her neck. Craving hands over sweaty skin, their heavy breaths a chorus of hushed moans with every thrust, harder, faster, louder until there wasn’t room to breathe, every detonation a larger impact and closer between them, building up to that...   
And then the white light surrounded her again in another cataclysm of bliss. A catatonic state of wonder, silently floating in open space, slowly returning down like a falling feather a still morning.  
Gradually regained control of herself and let the world into her mind again. Every heartbeat sending a pulse through her body that had her muscles twitch. Solas, a panting heap of sweaty mass on top of her, one hand still on her thigh. His heart a thunder reverberating from his chest to hers, the scent of moss and leather mixed with salty springs.  
She opened her eyes when Solas rolled off of her, but she hardly daret to move - wasn’t even sure that she could. She turned her head and looked at him. He rested his head in his palm and met her gaze with a smile. The light from the fire in his face deepened that look of affection as he lifted his hand and touched her face. “You once said that I sound like poetry to you”, he murmured as his fingers traced over her vallaslin.   
Dirthara wetted her lips before she spoke, and when she did, her voice was a hoarse croak. “A lonely wolf crying out his pain to the moon.”  
Solas blinked and his hand went still for a moment. “That was very precise...”  
Dirthara cleared her throat and rolled over to her side to fully face him. “To make it justice, I would have to write you a poem, and I am not that good with words.”  
Solas’ fingers followed her cheekbones to her ear, then he smiled again. “Do you remember how you said that poetry didn’t have anything to do with genders? You still haven’t proved me wrong.”  
“You really are wicked”, Dirthara replied with a smile and lifted her hand to touch his nose, stroked with one finger from that wrinkle between his brows along the bridge all the way to his tip.  
Solas chuckled, gently grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Very.”  
“If it’ll make you happy, I’ll give it a try.” Dirthara entwined her fingers together with his.  
“If it would make me happy?” Solas chuckled and squeezed her hand gently. “I thought you liked challenges.”  
Dirthara snorted. “You are a challenge and I absolutely adore you. Fair point.”  
Solas let go of her hand and changed his position, pulled her into an embrace. “When we still stayed in Haven, I read a poem. I found it in a tattered book written by an Orlesian poet I don’t remember the name of. It reminded me so much of you, that I never forgot the words.”  
Dirthara believed that she might have heard that poem before. A cute thing full of romantic drivel that Cassandra would love, written in a beat that made her feel completely at home when it was recited to her in the Fade. The words in that poem in particular had had little impact on her, but Solas’ confession made her heart flutter, for a couple of reasons. His image of her was surprisingly sweet, and...  
“In Haven?” she whispered. “But…”  
“There was attraction”, Solas admitted as the tips of his ears turned pink. “You are fully aware of how beautiful you are, you shouldn’t even question that.”  
“But you said…” Dirthara sighed and shook her head. “You know what, never mind. I said it too.”  
“You said what?” Solas furrowed his brows.  
“Do you remember that time in the Hinterlands when Varric and Cassandra were discussing bets? We both said…”  
Solas interrupted her. “Yes, I remember.”  
“Well. There was… Interest from my part, too.“ Dirthara felt how her cheeks turned warm. “Curiosity first, then… Lust.”  
Solas began to laugh. “And there you were; the symbol of an innocent, pure flower. The Herald of Andraste, an exotic princess from beyond the seas, too far up on her piedestal to be touched by simple hands. You really are the best kind of bad.”  
Dirthara sneaked an arm around his neck and moved closer with a sigh of content. “Yes. Let’s be bad together. I don’t want to wake up ever again.”


	30. Unveiling the blood splattered bride

Solas

Oh, you really are wicked. If I’d known you were such a bastard… I’m a horrible person, let’s be bad together. The princess is a delinquent, you really are wicked. Let’s be bad together, the best kind of bad. The wicked is pulled by the ears, let’s be bad together. You really are wicked, hunted down by a mabari. The wicked is caught by the tail, and still: let’s be bad together, the best kind of bad, biting off its tail to flee...

He deserved it. The downside: he couldn’t concentrate on his work, images spinning around in his head like moths around a lamp at night.  
The letter from Enchanter Renaud had arrived the very same moring, together with his understanding of the scroll that was attached. A really old scroll, the parchment old and yellow, dry and hard. The writing was in an ancient form of elvish, a spelling and an accent that Solas was eerily familiar with. This was old, very old. He should be more interested, but since last night, something that felt like a lump of tar had been growing inside of him. What was the point? With all of this?

It had been remarkably easy for the last couple of weeks to neglect his work in the Fade to spend his dreams with Dirthara instead. A hungry desperation that he couldn’t ease made him long for her through every waking moment, made him restless all day until he finally could go to sleep to find her in his dream. Without the slightest greeting, they were in each other’s arms, pulling at each other’s clothes like two starving beasts, and he had taken her on his desk, against the wall, in every way possible, and still he wanted more. A furious desire spurred on by hours of worries. But now, since three nights back, there was nothing. Just silence and unnerving memories.

He still tried to convince himself that it hadn’t been complete neglect to spend his nights with her - they had talked. Afterwards, or between… sessions. Covered in sweat and barely able to form coherent sentences. Dirthara did send birds, but the messages would not arrive until days later; what she told him was instant and he could deliver the messages to Leliana the next day.  
Dirthara had told him of a large rift in an old dwarven ruin under the lake, that she had taken hold of a second fort for the Inquisition, and most importantly: she had found the Warden. A certain Ser Jean-Marc Stroud, who had been branded traitor and was hunted by the Gray Wardens. Solas had been finding it difficult to not let his thoughts on the Wardens taint the conversation, but in all honesty he wasn’t surprised that their little group of thugs and idealists were fighting within themselves. When he was told that all Wardens had been summoned to Orlais by Warden-Commander Clarel in one last desperate attempt to end all Blights forever, he couldn’t contain his anger anymore.  
“That’s madness! For all we know, killing the Old Gods could make things even worse!” He had broken himself out of her embrace and begun pacing.  
Dirthara had gotten up to sitting in the pile of pillows on the floor by the fire, the flames a backlight that emphasized every curve of her naked body, gave her skin a glow that made her look even more like a sentient being than usual.  
“How many lives were lost during the last Blight?” she had asked, sounding like she already knew the answer. “Corypheus notwithstanding, I don’t blame the Wardens for acting instead of reacting.”  
“They are acting stupidly.” Solas had been too angry to think straight. The Old Gods - the dragons - to defeat the blight once and for all, they had to become affected and then cleansed to be immune. That was why he had made their souls the keys…  
“Yes, sure. By trying to end the Blight forever.” Dirthara had snorted. Not a sound of amusement, more like a sarcastic scoff. “I wouldn’t mind never having another Blight. Corypheus interfering is the real problem.”  
Her sarcasm had made him even more furious. “It is stupid, yes! Would it work? Do you know? Do they? And Corypheus…” Solas had growled out a whole tirade of curses under his breath, “Corypheus is just climbing on chaos - the Blight is the real problem! The fools who first unleashed the Blight upon this world thought they were unlocking ultimate power, and look where it has lead us!” And as he spoke that last sentence, he had glared accusingly at her.  
Dirthara had sighed and shaken her head, the messy blond hair hanging in tangled waves around her face, over her bare shoulders and back. “And the Wardens are trying to end the Blight forever. Solas, what is the problem with this?”  
Solas had stopped his pacing and turned around to look at her again, realized that he couldn’t hold her accountable for something she couldn’t remember. He couldn’t expect her to understand, she was far too young, but he had at least hoped that some memories were embedded in her spirit. And she was so beautiful, just looking upon that perfect face, drowning in those piercing eyes…  
He had become aware of, when his mind wasn’t clouded by anger anymore, the fact that her spirit always had been more connected to the Void, that the effects of the darkness unleashed upon the world never meant anything to her spirit, other than hoards of slaves with the power to crush nations - she had never experienced it first hand. He had sighed.  
“The Blight is not something one smugly outsmarts.” Like how Corypheus had outsmarted him, but he who laughs last... “They are acting like a fair maiden chasing a butterfly off a cliff. Forgive me. The entire idea is… unnerving.”  
“Solas.” Dirthara had inhaled, then hesitated. “I can see that you are upset, and I don’t understand why, but... Yes, you are right about one thing: we do not know if it will work. I’m leaving Crestwood with Stroud and Hawke in the morning, to scout an ancient Tevinter ritual tower in the Western Approach. We will investigate a Grey Warden congregation. I will see if I can reason with them.”  
“I’m coming with you.” Solas had sat himself down beside her again on the pile of pillows. “I’ll meet you there.”  
Dirthara had smiled and shaken her head. “Not a chance. I need you to…” She had taken a deep breath again, the way she always did when she had something difficult to say. “You are needed in Skyhold, and you know that.”  
“But if I lose you…” Solas had swallowed.  
“If the Inquisition loses me, I’m just an asset.” She paused and snickered dryly. “I would die a martyr and might even be canonized as some Hand of the Maker…”  
She snickered. Again. “Did you see what I did there? Ridiculous... Anyway, you…” Dirthara had lifted her hand and stroked his cheek. “You are a better leader than I ever will be, and you always stay in the shadow.”  
“Whispering into the ears of the leaders”, he had murmured with a sarcastic snicker. The joker in a deck of cards. She knew him all too well, and her words hurt, still did, but they were true. She had a point and he respected her even more for that honesty. However, the actual pain; the thought of definitely losing her - again - made him crave her even more, as if he could ...well, frankly put; fuck his pain away, because whatever it was they were doing, it wasn’t lovemaking.

Ten nights ago, Dirthara had reached the Western Approach, and she came to his dream at the brink of tears. She couldn’t stop the Wardens at the ritual tower. One man, Magister Erimond, had them all enslaved; had through blood magic bound them to demons. Erimond had fled, but Dirthara was left to end the lives of everyone he left behind.  
“Hawke, Stroud and I will scout the area”, she whispered with the tears running down her cheeks, and it was heartbreaking to see. “They are, most probable at Adamant Fortress.”  
Solas had tried to comfort her, but she gently pushed him away, wiped her tears and cleared her throat. When their eyes met again, she was as cold and hard as steel, but with her bottom lip still trembling. “Tell Cullen to prepare the troops.”

Nine nights ago, she ordered the march towards Adamant and mentioned that she had spent her entire day talking with her father. “We agreed to disagree, but I know him well enough”, she had explained and rolled her eyes.  
Later that day, Gisharel left Skyhold on the back of one of those fast white harts that Dirthara had bought a while back. Solas had seen him off as politely as he possibly could, and instead of that insufferable false pride the man usually aired, he seemed remarkably subdued. He had, as he stroked the brittle fur of the white hart, mentioned as an afterthought that this special breed was the symbol for the Lavellan clan; his wife’s family.  
The only thing Solas could think of when he saw Gisharel ride away, was the harts on the crest of Arlathan. He wondered if the elves really had remembered a heritage after all those years in chains, or if it was an imitation of the memories they had lost. If it was a true memory…  
That was a disturbing thought. When it hadn’t been more than a theory that he could brush away as irrelevant, it didn’t bother him as much… But if it was a true memory, he knew for certain that Dirthara was his kin.  
Several generations removed - he couldn’t stress that enough, but he still cringed from disgust over his own behaviour. There was really no excuse.  
Well, this was the body of Felassan; it was not like he was plowing his sister’s great great grandchild...  
Well, his spirit was…  
Oh, this was just sick, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Dirthara could find an ancestor in his youngest sister, Ghilana.  
Little Ghilana. Solas couldn’t remember her face anymore.  
He hadn’t thought of her in a very long time.  
Ghilana, born when Solas was in his early teens. Ghilana, always in the way, a feisty little girl with chestnut hair who wanted to be just like him when she grew up.  
Hmm… Some things never changed; instead, she was married off to the king of Arlathan in an attempt to form an alliance, and the fire in her eyes burned out.  
It felt so distant to think of it; Arlathan had just been a city state then, in the midst of an ancient forest. His father’s lands, further to the south in the Silent Plains… There was nothing left but hints to what once had been.  
Solas lost himself in melancholy that day; didn’t get much done at all.

Seven nights ago, that restless behaviour was back. Dirthara had assaulted Griffon Wing Keep - just her, Dorian, Blackwall and Sera - and killed every living soul inside its walls and claimed it for the Inquisition. To house Cullen’s troops when they arrived, she said, but Solas recognized that look in her eyes. Crossing out objective after objective, almost manically, claiming either lives or followers. That darkness she feared, that he had seen in her before, was growing.

Six nights ago, she had gone on several expeditions in the area around the fort, hunting a band of marauders and a flock of varghests. Dirthara now held most of the area under her thumb.

Five nights ago, she spoke of many things. Her father had arrived, before Cullens troops. Those harts were faster than Solas had imagined. Gisharel had been teaching her the basics in the ways of the Arcane Warrior, and Solas didn’t know if he was going to be sad to see her walk a path of violence, when her spirit was this sensitive, or if he was going to be pleased that she made sure her heritage lived on to the next generations.  
She also spoke of a strange find, a ruin that was frozen in time.  
“You were right about the shards, they are a part of some sort of locking mechanism”, she said. “This ruin was sealed with similar key stones.”  
And she fought, channeled her energy into a spear of fire and pointed it at the Venatori. Claimed lives for the always hungry Void.

Four nights ago, she had killed an abyssal high dragon, it had taken most of the day and had been completely unnecessary in Solas’ point of view. They had been thought to be extinct, what if that was the last one? Cullen’s troops had arrived at Griffon Wing Keep that same evening and they were going to march at Adamant at dawn. Solas had expected that it would take about a day to reach there, that he would hear from her again that next evening, but he never did, and now she had been silent for three days straight.

That was why his dreams these last few nights had been so worrisome.  
At first, when Dirthara didn’t show up in his dream, he began his search for her. Explained to himself that a siege would take days; they had arrived at Adamant this very evening, it was hardly ended in a heartbeat. Solas went to her usual spot, the place where she entered her dream when in Skyhold, where the spirits now remembered her vision so well that it almost felt the same as it used to do when she was there. The aravels under the tall trees, tents around a fire, the wind playing in the tall grass the sound of waves crashing towards the shore. An old man waddled out from one of the tents and disappeared between the trees, but DIrthara was nowhere to be seen. Solas couldn’t hear her, even though there was a remnant of her scent and beat in her scene. It wasn’t the same without her, like looking at a painting instead of experiencing it for real, but he sat down by the fire to wait. Added a lute to her scene and played just to keep his fingers active with something. When an hour had passed, he was feeling anxious, conjured a piece of paper and a pen to scribble down a note.

I was here, please come find me.  
Solas

He left the note on the log by the fire and returned to his warded little corner of the Fade, afraid that he might attract something less friendly if he wandered around with all his feelings in the open like this.  
Well, he attracted something, despite his wards. A tall creature, in the shape of a hooded man. Like the priests of Dirthamen in the temple behind the golden doors from his childhood memories. The black cloak flowing around him, the edges torn and fading into smoke.  
“Fear.” Solas took a deep breath to collect himself before he left his warded room. “It wasn’t my meaning to call for you.”  
The cloaked man chuckled. “I know, that is what I find so utterly amusing.”  
Solas sighed. “Yes, yes. I am feeding Fear, but I haven’t lost Hope.”  
“The fear of dying alone, or the fear of losing purpose? Dear Harellan, I think your Pride will grant you the loneliness you deserve.” Fear came closer and put an arm around his shoulder. The chill of his light touch nothing worse than Dirthara’s fingers after a day outdoors. A rather curious observation that made Solas snicker.  
“I always enjoyed your honesty”, he stated with a smile.  
Fear hesitated, was probably not expecting an honest expression of joy, albeit just a little glimpse of it, but he regained his composure. “The truth is what most fear, and this you should know.”  
“And yet, truth seems to be such a tangible thing in your persuasive hands.” Solas lifted one eyebrow and grinned.  
“And I have a truth for you: her Purpose is taking her through the Abyss of the Fear of Blight.” Fear inhaled, then snickered when he felt the flutter in Solas’ evenness.  
“Yes, I agree”, he continued, “You should have gone with her, because you have been feeding him for quite some time and I doubt that he will treat her fairly.”  
Solas swallowed and began to calculate the mass of a sphere in his head to keep his mind away from those base emotions; wasn’t going to fall for such a simple trick. At least, that explained why he couldn’t hear her, but how on Thedas did she end up there?  
“No, you are telling me this, because you are aware of my biggest fears”, he replied when he felt in control of his voice. “Thank you for the information, Fear. Is Honor still with her?”  
“As long as she stays honorable”, Fear answered calmly. “Deceit isn’t far away though.”  
“Yes, that is always the truth.” Solas shook his head. “Old friend, you are only saying such things to scare me.”  
“Oh?” Fear began to laugh. “She hasn’t told you? The deceitful little seductress.”  
Those words hit a sensitive nerve. Solas returned to the sphere in his mind, added indentions in intricate patterns.  
“You are beginning to sound a lot like Deceit”, Solas pointed out, as calmly as he could. “He’s the one who talks in riddles, whereas you stay to facts.”  
“Yes, you always liked your facts and calculations, Solas. Solve this riddle and you will find the facts: The Keeper might be keeping, but not by her own head, the dreamer should be sleeping, but runs in fear instead.” With those words Fear turned himself into a crow and flew away, hysterically laughing.  
Solas furrowed his brows.The Keeper might be keeping? What kind of a strange riddle…? He returned to the room inside his wards and collapsed into the chair by the desk with a grunt and scratched his chin.

By the following morning he hadn’t solved the riddle, and quite frankly he was starting to believe that it wasn’t Fear he had met, but Hamin the bear. He was a skilled shapeshifter, after all, and he liked his riddles. And if Hamin knew these things, it meant that he had chosen to follow Dirthara, which could either be a good thing or a bad thing. Solas had reason not to trust him, but at the same time… Ghilan’nain had been beautiful and alluring, Hamin had fallen for her charms like everybody else. When Solas came to think of it, Dirthara…  
Oh.  
The Keeper might be keeping, but not by her own head, the dreamer should be sleeping, but runs in fear instead.  
She couldn’t be that horrible. But the signs! The Lavellan clan was different from all the others, traded with humans, and Dirthara had been talking about reforming. And her father, the dreamer, the former slave. Of course he ran. He liked his life the way it was now, when he could choose to whom he gave his leash.  
A geas. That was how subtle Ghilan’nain had been in her hunt for followers. Blood was never needed, she just smiled her way to power.  
Then why had Dirthara turned Farras into that horrible being; had it really been necessary to commit that murder when she was holding the clan in her hand anyway?  
And now, an entire Inquisition. He had been sniffing on these accusations before, was she powerful enough for something like that? How about his own feelings, were they really his? Would he know if they weren’t?  
Oh no, not this again, he had been so happy.

The next night - two nights ago - he wanted his questions answered, and when she didn’t show up in his dream, he was quick to leave. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see her anyway. Someone he needed to see however, was Hamin. Their relationship had been strained at best since the deceit; maybe it was about time to forgive him. The bear didn’t know better, and if Dirthara was just the same… The thought made it crawl under his skin.  
So Solas went deep, further than Dirth’s domain, down into the screaming memories that didn’t want to be forgotten, sang to sooth them before their wailing became unbearable, and then there was nothing but whispers, the humming melodies from a time when everything sang the same. Solas stopped and sang the old song of the Bear Under the Mountain. He didn’t remember all the words, figured that they had changed over time, but he believed that the melody still remained the same.  
“Stop your howling, wolf.” A large mass of darkness began to glow as the bear took shape. He yawned and stretched his limbs before he stood up on all fours. “Can’t you see I’m sleeping?”  
Solas closed his mouth abruptly. “I beg your pardon, Hamin. I’ve heard your song so often lately that I didn’t think you slept anymore.”  
“Ah.” The bear sat down again and stared at Solas. “I knew you would come, eventually. I’ve been waiting patiently.”  
“Of course you did.” Solas grunted. He was painfully aware of the fact that this would end in more riddles; the spirit of Patience was a curious being. “I had a visit from a certain crow last night.”  
“Oh?” Hamin looked genuinely surprised. “Which one of them; the priest or the hunter?”  
Solas sat down too, even though it was completely unnecessary. Both him and the bear was floating around rather aimlessly in a world without gravitation. “The priest. And he said something that made me think.”  
Hamin scratched himself behind his ear and yawned again. “If he made you think, you are probably overthinking it.”  
“He gave me a riddle.” Solas studied Hamin carefully as he said those words. The bear closed his large mouth with a snap and huffed before he shook his head.  
“I told you - you are overthinking it. The priest never tell riddles”, he grunted. “Tell me, was it any good?”  
Solas cleared his throat. “The Keeper might be keeping, but not by her own head, the dreamer should be sleeping, but runs in fear instead.”  
“Hmm…” The bear closed and opened his eyes. “An interesting cadence, two iambs and an amphibrach, then a line of iambic trimeter… hmm, the rhymes are simple but not very creative…”  
Solas took a deep breath and chuckled. “The cadence is not why I am here, and you know this.” Not that he was surprised, if there was a secret to it, the bear would keep it to himself.  
“Fear never tells you what you want to hear”, the bear stated calmly. “That was not a riddle.”  
“Oh.” Solas felt his heart sink. “There is no hidden meaning.”  
Hamin scrunched his face together and scratched his belly with one massive clawed paw. “Yes… and no. Every void is born from a supernova.”  
Well, that didn’t help much. Was there never a middleground? Solas gave the bear a serious glare. “Whatever she is to you, don’t let her fool you.”  
The bear froze before he turned his head and their eyes met. “She is not Ghilan’nain”, he pointed out with an irritated tone. “Think back: The princess is a delinquent. If I’d known you were such a bastard, you really are wicked. The wicked is pulled by the ears, hunted down by a mabari. The wicked is caught by the tail. The best kind of bad. Let’s be bad together. Are you biting off your tail to flee? It wouldn’t be the first time, wolf.”  
Solas could almost feel how all color left his face, flashes of red, then pale again. “She… she knows?”  
“She will soon enough.” Hamin yawned again. “If you excuse me, Solas. You are acting remarkably stupid today and you don’t amuse me at all. I’d like to return to my slumber.”  
The shape of the bear slowly disappeared into nothing but stars.

The night was still young and Solas would be able to make it to The Free Marshes and back again before morning, but something held him back. Too many difficult memories would cloud his vision. But how could he in other ways either confirm or dismiss what Fear had told him? He wanted Fear and Deceit where they were, the crows were fast if something happened.  
Maybe it was better to let it rest, to discuss this with Dirthara when she returned.  
If she returned.  
Mixed feelings. He missed her terribly, was so worried that he couldn’t think straight, and at the same time he was furious. If this was true, she wasn’t better than she had been before.  
Cole. As soon as he woke up in the morning, he would talk to Cole.

“Blueberry muffins and tea?” Solas sat down by one of the smaller tables at the Herald’s Rest, Cole slowly followed while his eyes darted around the room.  
“Solas takes solace where the messenger dreams. Muffins and tea, but nothing resolved.”  
Solas sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I know.”  
“I can help, but you must let me.” Cole lifted his head, enough for Solas to for once see all of his face. “You are quiet, Solas. Inside.”  
“It is easier that way.” Solas hesitated though, didn’t know how to phrase his question. He didn’t want to let the boy in, it might scare him. “Cole, what is your thought on the Inquisitor?”  
Cole lowered his head again. “You love her. Is that why you hurt and hide?”  
Solas cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “Yes.” It was better to be straight with the boy, he had tendency to see things either way. And this, this was the truth. He loved her, and because of that her actions hurt him even more. Enslaving people like that… it was worse than the Qun! A hive mind...  
“She's too bright. Like counting birds against the sun. The mark makes her more. But past it…” Cole took a deep breath and froze, stared emptily in front of him.  
Solas leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Yes?”  
“She reached across, mindful, meaning…, Cole murmured, “The greater good, and they were burnt - she is too bright, too much, and then the void became her.”  
Solas slumped down, felt heavy and almost wished that he hadn’t asked. “The greater good does that to people, and sometimes for very fickle reasons.”  
And why was he this furious? Because the spirit wasn’t steering her actions. It was her actions and choices that made her spirit change. Her spirit might be strong and powerful, but very sensitive. Hamin’s expression had been very accurate, really. Every void was born from a supernova. Curious that this was how Cole described her too.

On his way out from The Herald’s Rest, Iron Bull had stopped him in the door. Too large to enter without bowing, and one would think that a man with his posture would be too proud to bow, but he was subtle for his size.  
Well, at least compared to Varric.  
Because there were questions, hushed, as if he was delivering a secret message. He wondered, as casually as he could, about the shape of the Inquisitor’s bedposts before asking if Solas needed some good rope to tie things up with or if he’d like to borrow a whip. For spanking.  
Iron Bull had at least tried to keep a low profile in his curious probing, but did so at the most inappropriate time. Solas had to bite his jaws together tightly not to scream.  
Spanking. Damn it, he wasn’t in the mood for the parallels, even though they popped into his head like a Jack-in-a-box. World domination or just a very naughty girl - those were two completely different pictures. 

Last night, Solas had decided that he couldn’t wait no longer. He searched for her at Adamant, heart pounding with fear of what he might encounter. The siege wasn’t over yet, had been such a huge clash that the spirits already reenacted the scenes with ferocity, like children playing heroes of war; every spirit imitating what they had found most interesting. There were seven Cullens, an uncountable amount of Dirtharas, he could see at least three Gisharels - to Solas’ surprise - and about sixteen Hawkes. Some spirits prefered the enemy side, but those were remarkably few, if one didn’t count the dragon.  
The dragon. It made Solas bite his nails from concern. At least ten dragons and a sea of demons.  
And at the same time, the fort was falling, crushing people in the lower levels. This battle was nothing but utter confusion. If he wanted to know what really had happened, he would have to take it slow, from the start.

A conversation by the gates between Dirthara and Cullen that ended with a long embrace. She was so small that she disappeared completely in the former templar’s large arms. They were both aware of that this fight might be their last, and it pained Solas to see how receptive Dirthara was despite her young years. She shouldn't know war; it was again her spirit leading her. If she didn't win, she was the ultimate sacrifice. She should have worn a red vallaslin, like the one belonging to Anaris, that would have suited her better.  
And then she turned around and sneaked inside, followed by Sera, Blackwall and Dorian; Gisharel, Hawke and a Gray Warden that had to be Stroud. As the gates closed behind her, everything changed. That bright light that Cole had mentioned - Dirthara became difficult to watch as she summoned a spirit blade and rushed ahead into battle. Solas was surprised that she had learnt the basics in such a ridiculously short amount of time, until he remembered that her spirit… He had been a warrior, a conqueror; his champions the best fighters the world had ever seen.  
And that maniacal laughter; the close combat making her glow seem even stronger. No, that wasn’t right - only by comparison. It was everything around her that turned darker - pure entropy draining everything affected, and Dirthara shone like a bright star in the darkness, a blood splattered bride of the realms beyond the Fade, one of the few that wasn't forgotten. It wasn’t a spell causing it, this was something he only remembered from his darkest nightmares; The madness Falon’Din had turned into before the fall, when the secrets of Dirthamen had been used in every wrong way possible.  
But he couldn’t look away. In some sense, he was fascinated; had never seen her pictured like this before. On the other hand, he hadn’t seen her through the visor of a spirit. Her own image of herself was much too similar to what she looked like in real life. His own illusion, of her as a sweet blossom shattered, and in reality he should have known. She was a conqueror, a fighter; she must have had it in her or her spirit wouldn’t have chosen her.

So he sat here, by his desk, brooding; remembering every little piece of that scene with fear. Cole had said once, it felt like a century ago, that this was her purpose, and maybe he had been right, but what would become of her when there wasn’t anything else to conquer? Under her, the Inquisition would grow into a threat to both Orlais and Ferelden; would there be a reason for their fear - or more precise, would she be their reason to be afraid? For the greater good, yes, he had done that same mistake too, but in his wake he didn’t leave brainwashed slaves.  
Well… The little wisp of his father in the back of his head reminded him dryly about the priests that had gone mad, their hidden city in the Silent Plains that had crumbled… Too much knowledge had been enough to destroy it all. The only thing left was the wolves, and Solas had once wondered if they carried the last remains of his people; a small glimpse of hope that soon enough had collapsed. Whatever they had been, they were nothing but wolves now.


	31. Silence and darkness

Dirthara

The clashes of metal against metal, shouts of anger and agony - her theme song - stronger and stronger as daylight became brighter, and she fought to get free, to get back, to deal the final blow. Forced back against her will, and still it was herself she fought the hardest.  
“Hawke! No!” She screamed, Dorian’s arms around her waist as he held her back, Blackwall and Stroud pulling at her arms as the rift slowly pulled itself together, Gisharel and Sera fending the weaker fears off. It should have been her; she did at least have the means to leave the Fade eventually, just needed to figure out how, but Hawke… “Let me go!”  
Tears blurring her vision, out of anger rather than sadness; she hated being this powerless.  
“Don’t be silly, dear.” Dorian composed, but with his voice trembling just by her ear. “If I let go of you, you will be running straight back in there, and I can’t stand the thought of losing my only friend.”  
“Yes, because everything circles around you, doesn’t it?” Blackwall grunted between clenched jaws. “Inquisitor, you’re not thinking straight... Damn it, how is this one little girl so strong?”  
“Inquisitor, the world still needs you”, Stroud filled in where Blackwall fell silent, and it wasn’t until then Dirthara felt her limbs collapse. All her energy disappeared in an instant and as she saw the rift close, the reverse momentum and the sheer force of the three men holding her back caused them all to tumble down to the ground. Dirthara landed in Dorian’s lap, his arms still in a tight grasp around her, and she just fell, fell, fell.  
“Dirthara?” She vaguely recollected her father’s voice.  
Hawke. She had only known him for a short while, so why did it hurt so badly the moment she realized that she wouldn’t see him again? It had to be Varric’s stories; she felt like she had met him in an earlier life. And he had the weirdest sense of humor… And she could have saved him, if he hadn’t been such a stubborn mule, if she only had let that darkness fill her...  
“My little fennec…” Gisharel’s voice again.  
That darkness… Like tar, ignited by adrenaline, made everything feel stretched and tangible; she had never been so afraid before… Her biggest fear was herself, and when other saw spiders...  
Dirthara leaned forward and threw up on the ground in front of her.  
“There we go, princess.” Dorian loosened his grip around her and tapped her back. “Get yourself together; we still have work to do.”  
Gisharel cursed, a long tirade to Fen’Harel and all his little demons, their uncles and their mothers. “You shemlen are absolutely impossible; it is always now, now, now. Can’t you see she’s in shock?”  
Dirthara cleared her throat and spat, tried to collect herself before she spoke. “I’m alright, dad. Really.” She got up on her feet with a helping hand from Blackwall, would have fallen to her knees again if she hadn’t. Her legs were wobbling like jelly, but they had to move on - she could hear the clamor, the fighting… Where were they? She looked around. At the bottom of the fortress, dead bodies strewn around them. Crushed under the fallen rocks. Both her own - the Inquisition’s - soldiers and Gray Wardens; families had lost sons, daughters, fathers and mothers… it wasn’t fair. War wasn’t fair. Would it be worth it? Solas’ words rang in her head: ‘Corypheus is just climbing on chaos - the Blight is the real problem! The fools who first unleashed the Blight upon this world thought they were unlocking ultimate power, and look where it has lead us!’, that look on his face, wrinkles of disgust over the bridge of his nose, lips pulled back to expose teeth like an aggressive canine… He knew something, a larger threat than this - if she couldn’t handle the fear of the Blight, then how would she be able to handle…  
“We’re all alright”, Dirthara mumbled hoarsely, but the words didn’t convince her. Just as little as the assuring smile she plastered on did.  
“Alright? Alright?!” Sera spun around and screamed towards the sky. “Pissbucket friggin… arse! Nothing is alright with this! Don’t you ever bring me to that place again, you hear?”  
Dirthara chuckled dryly; she doubted that Sera was aware of how right she was. If they managed to stop this madness, it would only grant them a temporary peace. Her head was spinning and even the air she breathed tasted of puke, they were standing in the middle of a war zone and the only one sensible was the mad elf... “Sera, if I knew how to, I wouldn’t touch that place with a ten feet pole.”  
Those images. They would stay on the inside of her eyelids everytime she closed her eyes. The night terrors that came for her in her sleep; little fears that Solas had taught her how to handle; they were nothing compared to this.  
“Did you happen to read anything in there?” Gisharel asked, in his usual, rather distant minded way. “This was not just any Fear.”  
Dirthara shook her head and spat again. “I didn’t get a chance to read anything, I was busy looking for my own memories…” And one heavy stone had left her chest, at least something positive. The conclave - it wasn’t her fault, she didn’t cause it. Corypheus… There had to be something at the Temple of the Sacred Ashes that he wanted; why else would he be there at that particular time when the place was crawling with both templars and mages? And why exactly did he use the Divine as his sacrifice? It was just so… Arrogant, but then again… All that lyrium under the mountain...  
“Did you find something, dad?” She asked in a raspy voice and cleared her throat.  
Gisharel nodded slowly.  
“In short terms: that large ...thing.” He pointed over his shoulder at where the rift had been just moments ago, “It was all our collected fear of the Blight. What surprises me is it’s size; the first blight was only... “ Gisharel paused and counted on his fingers. “About a thousand years ago.”  
Blackwall snorted. “Only?”  
Yes, only… That was actually rather strange. Dirthara felt like she should understand why, almost like she saw all the dots but had forgotten how to connect them into a picture, and somehow that made her feel disconnected from herself. She knew what it was they had met, was familiar enough with it without even knowing why, and yet… Why?  
“This demon was much older than that”, Dirthara agreed and furrowed her brows. “How have we not read about it in any lore? The First Blight is only first mentioned in the year -395 Ancient…”  
“My point exactly.” Gisharel put his staff on his back. “How about it, Inquisitor, what’s our next move?”  
“We have done our part”, Dirthara hummed and looked up towards the edge of the palisades. The battle had taken the Inquisition soldiers further into the fort and Adamantine would be theirs within hours. “I doubt that we can make much of a difference in this state…”, she argued as she calculated how long it would take to run around the entire fort just to reach an entrance, then the ascent. In all fairness, she wasn’t in her best shape either, and the rest of the group… She doubted that Sera or Stroud felt better than she did. Sera was plain out screaming out her need for a break; Stroud had kept a stoic facade on for as long as Dirthara had known him. They all needed some time to contemplate on what they had been through, and Dirthara wasn’t sure of how much longer she could stay collected. She needed Solas more than anything; that earthy scent of moss and leather which always calmed her, his warmth, the way he spoke… If she ever were to write him a poem, it would be about those things. Dirthara looked up towards the sky, squinted against the sun. Mid-day. He wouldn’t be waiting in his dream for yet another couple of hours.  
“Let’s return to camp and see what Cullen has to say”, Dirthara added with a sigh.

A poem… She wasn’t good with words, and still: here she was: in her dream, with a quill in her hand an a paper full of ink blotches and a few scribbled words. Farras hadn’t been of much help.  
“The egg head turned you into a romantic?” he jeered and punched her on the shoulder, “You used to be fun, what happened with the girl I knew…”  
A bundle of nerves, waiting for her to finish - she had promised to come with him hunting rabbits, just like in the good old days. Apparently, she wasn’t fast enough; Farras collected his things with a grunt when Dirthara just shook her head and snickered.  
“Eh, whatever.” He left her uninspired scene, muttering about how he prefered the clearing she had built at Skyhold anyway. Yes, this was nothing more than the inside of a tent. It felt safe to wake up in… or… yeah, weird. Did one wake up into a dream?  
This failed attempt at writing poetry though. It was to keep her mind away from more pressing things, that was obvious. She couldn’t deal with that mess of thoughts, at least not now. It was too much, too soon and too frightening; she needed some distance to get the right perspective. So, a poem about the beautiful things...  
“There are much more that I adore than slender hips and gentle lips…” She grunted. This was stupid, and she wasn’t doing him justice. He was the cliff in the storm that she clambered onto, lest she would be swallowed by the waves. Poor Solas, he deserved something sweet and romantic, and all he got was… this. Dirthara dropped the quill with a frustrated sigh, which caused another stain to spread on the paper. He was the artist of the two, why was she even trying? It would have been easier to just make a list…  
Wait… Maybe that was it.  
Dirthara flipped the paper and started over. What was it she loved about him?  
How he always stayed composed - well, almost anyway - even though he clearly was a passionate man.  
The way he talked… Oh, he really had a way with words, and his voice, that accent. She could melt, just from thinking about it.  
His mind. He knew things, had a way of figuring things out, and she couldn’t figure out how he did it. Simple mathematics, he’d said once, but there was nothing simple with his calculations.  
How his eyes almost seemed to change color with his temper. That aquamarine which turned a shade of bluish purple when he smiled. It had to be the lights, reflections or something, but that was a part of him.  
His butt. How to phrase that in a more sensible way? What it looked like when he walked? Hmm…  
Oh, and he was compassionate… Mostly. Stupidity - from his perspective - wasn’t given much… Eh… Well, that was an aspect of his pride. She somehow doubted that he liked that side of himself.  
Did he fear his pride as much as she feared her ...darkness?

It was late when she finally became fully quiet and disappeared into her darkness. Emptied her mind, let go of her body and cut off all ties. The dreams of death made her invisible; both body and mind. She had read that it would render her body tranquil as long as she was gone, but it wasn’t something she feared, not any more. She only needed to touch her mind to return. As Solas had pointed out; her spirit had a strong connection to the Void. The Fade was fast paced when nothing tied her down, and the Void was even faster. One image was all needed for her to be spit out; in this case, she only needed to think of a certain cadence. A window opened up in the darkness and she stepped out, felt the carpet under her feet and burrowed her toes into it. Solas’ wards tingling on her skin.  
He sat by his desk with his back turned, the flickering light from the fire and a candle making his shadows move as he turned the pages in a book.  
Hadn’t he noticed her? He always seemed to know where she was, why didn’t he turn around?  
Dirthara sneaked forward, slowly one step at a time, stopped behind him just inches away. He lifted his head and sniffed the air just as she pulled up her poem from the pocket of her coat.  
“Hello darkness, my old friend”, Solas murmured.  
His words strummed a strange vibration in her; not a single sound, just hunger. Dirthara gasped for air, the paper in her hand fell to the floor, shadows growing, the hunger, the insatiable hunger…  
“You still remain within the sound of silence”, she answered as if it was a greeting, but it was neither her words, nor her voice. Dirthara could almost feel the darkness grow around her, long tendrils searching light like a plant grown in a basement. She pulled energy from the fire, almost drawn towards it like a moth, thin, stretched…  
“No one dares to disturb it”, Solas replied and turned around in his chair. His face… This wasn’t the Solas she knew, and yet it was familiar. A thousand eyes, the heat before a thunderstorm, cold winds mixed with warm and the electricity just resting on the surface. His cadence was the drums of war, feet marching to the beat, visions of bloody battles; both from ancient times and from what was yet to come.  
“Chaos was your stairway to eternity”, Dirthara replied, disconnected from herself. In her chest, her heart was pounding hard with fear, but her shadows became a comforting cloak. Still, she feared this feeling of comfort more than she feared Solas; if this really was him. The darkness grew around her, but there was light, within. She knew it was, had seen it before. That strong, white light - her reason to live. She was a guiding star, lonely in the dark… She forced herself to focus on the light.  
“And order only had one solution.” Solas stood up, studied her with all his thousand eyes, saw every flaw, every little horrid deed, and they were many. Many more than those she remembered. How many lifetimes…?  
The light. Too bright to look at. She grasped it firmly and let it fill her, fed it with reason. A fire burning from within, and the shadows turned. Stretched into her instead of out of her.  
“A swift end would be better in the long run”, Dirthara whispered, but her voice was still not her own, the shadow still a coat around her. A strange feeling of peace… The light was the opposite, would only feed disorder, but still… It held a purpose just as valuable. “Life will only tear itself to pieces, cause pain and disarray…”  
But she embraced the light, it would lead the lost through the night. Forced the shadows back, fell to her knees panting. “It doesn’t have to be like that”, she added and collected herself before she looked up. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”  
Solas stood above her, looking down at her shivering self image. The Solas she always knew, and still… His eyes were as cold as ice.  
“A few words…” His voice a whiplash. “Was that all needed?”  
Dirthara tried to shape herself, but couldn’t think straight. Looked down at her hands, disturbance in her surface. Decay, skin falling off, light shining through. She looked at herself and gasped with horror. “What have you done to me, Solas?”  
“You did that yourself”, Solas snapped. “Think of every life you’ve ended to save the lights of few.”  
“That is not how it works, Solas”, Dirthara protested and lifted her chin in defiance, but the guilt made her heart race and cold sweat ran down her spine. He knew, somehow he knew, and she should have told him earlier. “When there is no hope…”  
Solas glared at her, teeth shown, lips curled back, nose wrinkled. “There is hope when there is patience.”  
“My people is dying, Solas. Magic is failing us, and once that was all we had. I did what I had to…”, she looked down at her hands again and grimaced. This had to be her true self, the ugly truth she didn't want to know. But Solas... Who was he, really?  
“Your people have been dying since the fall of Arlathan, Dirthara!” Solas leaned forward, growled the words in her face. “It is not in their will to survive!”  
Dirthara stood up slowly and met Solas’ glare. Whoever he was, he had chosen to hide that truth, just like herself. She was not the only one at fault here. “You think I should have let it happen? Stand by idly as they dig themselves deeper and deeper into blindness? I tried to guide them, but they would not see…”  
“You enslaved your clan, those you call your people, because they wouldn’t listen?” Solas grinned, but it wasn’t an expression of happiness. “You turned them away from their purpose, and then you bound them, for that simple reason?”  
Dirthara sighed. There was no reason to argue about this, because he was right. This was her reason for her guilt. And yes, the reason had been… fickle. She took a deep breath and focused on her self image again. The facade, her mask. If she kept things realistic, the way they looked in the material world, it was easy to keep it up. Just enough concentration to bide herself some time, find a suitable explanation. Her deeds had not been honorable, but there had been a reason.  
“Yes. I have done horrible things, and I have told you so, over and over again”, she growled back when she saw the flesh and skin reshape on her hands. “I can never measure up to your expectations, Solas.”  
Solas snickered and there was a wicked glint in his eyes. “My expectations were never high, Dirthara.”  
Those words hurt. She swallowed that bitter bile down and grinned in return. “No, not at all. The symbol of an innocent, pure flower, an exotic princess from beyond the seas, too far up on her piedestal to be touched by simple hands, wasn’t that your words? I was just to sit there and be pretty, am I right? I’m sorry to crush your illusion, sweetheart, but nothing is ever just black or white.”  
“No, let us keep everything in the gray, you seem to be handling that perfectly fine.” Solas began to laugh. “Oh, I am so sorry. I misunderstood. You meant that everything is black and white at the same time.”  
“Oh, by the… Is there never a middle ground with you?” Dirthara grunted in frustration and began to pace just to keep her anger at bay. Too close to lose concentration, didn't want to do something she would regret. “No, of course not. Everything is just hunky dory as long as I agree with you, but the second I stray away from your little path you absolutely explode! You are a very passionate man, Solas, and that is something I love about you, but please. This is the reason why I never dared to tell you before.”  
“I explode?” Solas made a wide gesture with his arms. “I explode? Your self-awareness really is something...”  
“My self-awareness…” Dirthara sighed, felt how her shoulders fell. What was the use? “I just crawled through hell and back again, and still my biggest fear is myself. You know what, I give up. I’ve had enough of this.”


	32. To sleep or not to sleep - that is the question

Solas

Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. She was dismissing him? After what she had done? Solas could hardly contain his anger. He had already been too close to lose his temper once, Dirthara might even have seen… It didn’t matter. It really didn’t matter - nothing did anymore.   
“You have had enough of this.” Solas chuckled. “Of course. Because this is your truth, not mine.”  
Dirthara turned around and glared at him, walked the few steps that were between them and stopped just an inch away from him. Collected, the darkness yet again drawing inwards. She always had her own gravitational field, a stupid man might call it attraction. Because he had been stupid. This face, now when she was looking at him with that fire in her eyes; he had been drawn to her from the very beginning; he tried to fight it, but for no use. Such beauty, even in her anger, that charm which had him spellbound, that intelligence she had shown in every action… And this, what he had seen when he spoke those few words, made it obvious that all of it had been an illusion.  
“Yes, this was my truth; and no, that is not why I have had enough.” Dirthara crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “You made the choice to look for my past. Fine. Any relationship should be built on trust and mutual respect. I’ve had enough, because you have the nerve to question what I have done, and at the same time conceal your own history. That shows neither respect, nor trust. If your own background is so much worse, why are you hounding me?”  
Dirthara never waited for an answer. She shook her head and sighed. “This ends here, Solas. I see you when I see you.”  
“What…” Before Solas had a chance to respond, Dirthara closed her eyes and went completely silent. He couldn’t hear her beat, the scent of her became weaker, and just moments later she had thought herself out of existence.  
“Dirthara?” Solas growled in frustration. That stubborn woman! She stole his words again! Solas began to pace, back and forth over the floor, the electricity only tingling under his skin. He could feel the eyes burning red in his forehead; looking, searching, probing, but he still couldn’t see what he was looking for. Too weak, too bloody weak. With the mirrors, he could have followed her, Deceit had carried a mirror into the Void before, that time when his tranquil father physically entered and grasped their idiotic godhood on his own accord… Solas could be just as silent as his father had been. He should hunt her down, find her and…  
Something crumpled under his bare foot and he looked down. A piece of paper, rolled together, worn and torn. Solas furrowed his brows and crouched down to pick it up. What on Thedas, this was not something he had given shape; he remembered every little spirit in this warded room, and this was not one of his. He opened it slowly, and recognized Dirthara’s strict handwriting before he noticed the words. But when he read, another truth revealed itself:

There are much more that I adore than slender hips and gentle lips; I can’t portray in simple ways my passion.   
Your words and mind, voice when you talk, eyes when you smile, the way you walk, a stoic light in darkest night, compassion.

Solas froze and looked up from the little piece of paper. This was his cadence, this was…  
Oh, no; she came here to give him this? His head began to spin and he more fell than sat himself down on the floor. The electricity under his skin faded and his eyes stopped searching.  
It was written with her own words; an answer both to Varric’s jeering and Solas’ question about what she heard in his beat. It couldn’t have been easy for her; she was a logical and straightforward kind of a woman, someone who saw beauty, appreciated it but didn’t know how to build it.  
Solas shook his head slowly, needed to get all these thoughts in order.  
This. A poem. A piece of paper with words written on it. It wasn’t a reason to excuse her actions, he pointed out to himself, but his mouth was dry and he didn’t even trust his own words.  
She had no right to...  
Oh.  
Mutual trust and respect. She knew enough about him to have a reason to ask questions, and still she chose not to. Well, mostly.   
A stoic light in darkest night. Compassion.  
No, there was nothing but pride, and Fear had been right. His pride would grant him the loneliness he deserved. Hamin had been right too; they were equally guilty.  
No, actually, Solas was worse. He had condemned his people. They were just like the spirits they once had been the prison for; not creative enough to make wise decisions of their own. Once in a while, the few came along, the odd ones that swam against the stream and knew how to lead…  
And he had turned away from her. Again. Because she had reacted on what he already knew. Since the fall of Arlathan, the elves had done nothing to further their people; they had fallen and would be lost. It wasn’t just Gisharel, Dirthara’s father that carried with him the wish to follow rather than lead; that was who they all were. They had been enslaved so many times throughout history that he should have seen it earlier, and he couldn't save them. Not anymore. Had Dirthara said that their magic was failing them? Were the elves losing their connection to their heritage? What would become of them - nothing at all or built into the hivemind of the titans together with the dwarves?   
He was confused, looked down at that the crumbled piece of paper in his hand again. A bitter smile spread on his lips. She wanted order, and he was chaos. This poem told him that more than anything. The traits she had given him were all about order. Even the way she had written it - she must have started off with a list. He wondered if that really was what she saw in him, or if it was what she chose to see.  
And now… What would she see in him now? The red glowing eyes and the jaws of Fen’Harel or the similar shapes of a pride demon?  
It didn’t matter. It really didn’t matter.

It was still difficult to concentrate on his work the following morning, despite the confrontation. He had thought that it would ease his mind to put it all behind him, but it felt like there still were things he needed to understand. Like a cliffhanger at the end of a chapter or a badly written adventure with all threads hanging without resolution. Her words, that the elves were losing their magic, it was not something he had put his thoughts into. It never was a part of his calculation. Would the veil be responsible for that, or had they done that to themselves? The elves had been created out of air, because it made them easy to shape. The winds forgot, because the storms had been crushed into little pieces. What if the elves were just like the dwarves - the last breath of a dying giant? Was it just his own genepool that carried the true building-blocks of all the realms? It was after all what had been needed to keep Falon’Din bound, a long time ago. Creation to equal out entropy. To think, they once had been the same being, Dirthamen and Falon’Din, and the irony, when Dirthamen became Falon’Din’s prison.  
But Dirthara had been right. History was history, had shaped them into what they were and the only way to go was forward. Solas lowered his head and read the scroll in front of him once more. A tracing, the writing uneven and shaky. Emma solas him var din'an. Tel garas solasan. Melana en athim las enaste. Solas sighed and translated the familiar dialect with a whisper. “Arrogance became our end. Come not to a prideful place. Now let humility grant favor.”  
What Enchanter Renaud had gotten out of the scroll was close enough. It wasn’t a temple, but a warded cell, something or someone kept inside of it. Something powerful and dangerous. According to both the Enchanter and the scroll, it was located in the Western Approach, which incidentally was exactly where Dirthara was right now. If she had taken hold of the area, it would be easier to return later on, because whatever she would meet when she entered - there wasn’t even a question about if she would - he didn’t want her to go there alone.  
“You’re a stupid, stupid man, Solas”, he growled at himself and dropped the scroll on his desk. Indecisive, uncertain and… Well, she had probably been right - again. He didn’t put trust in her abilities, always thought her smaller than she was. In one heated moment, he had spoken to the monster within her, and now he was worried about her again. He shouldn’t, and she would most certainly not appreciate it after their last argument. But how could he not? Wasn’t that the hardest struggle when you loved someone?  
It was obvious though, when he looked at it from a new perspective. He needed her. Without her, he turned into that… beast. She brought light into his life, was the guiding star that he needed, but what did he bring into their relationship? The madness that knowledge granted? The chaos that change meant?   
Enough of this. Solas stood up from his desk and cleared his throat in an attempt to clear his mind. Leliana, he needed to share this find with her. Whatever the Venatori was after in this oasis, it was something bad, and they needed to get there first.

Dirthara

Late evening, and she didn’t want to go to sleep. Cullen had woken her up early in the morning, before her spirit had returned to her body, and it had made it difficult or her to return. After searching the area around her little tent, she had found herself, already on horseback on her way back through the desert. Apparently, she had ordered a march back to the fort in a catatonic state, had claimed the city ruins of Adamant to the Inquisition and ordered the Gray Wardens to station the forted city and build it up again under the guidance of the Inquisition. It was the most logical solution, she had to admit, but it disturbed her that her body did things without her knowing. If she fell asleep, she would enter the Fade, and Solas would hear her. If she fell asleep and dreamt about her own death she would enter the Void, which felt safer, but would she be able to find her way back?  
That was why she still was up. Dirthara had taken hold of one of the few rooms that were intact at Griffon Wing, fashioned it into a combined office and bed chamber. The wind blew through the unglassed windows and brought sand, that horrible stench from the gassy pits and sounds of the night into her room. The curtains she had hung up didn’t help much, only put her work in darkness. The candles in front of her on her desk had almost burned out, which was proof enough that she had been up far longer than she had planned. Letter had to be written though, reports made, and since she wasn’t in the mood to think about last night in the Fade, this would be enough to keep her focus away from it, but now, she was done. A restlessness that she knew would turn into an unhealthy drive if she couldn’t find something to point that energy towards soon.  
“Inquisitor?” Cullen’s voice, and then a knock on her door.   
“Commander.” She stood up from the desk just as Cullen opened the door and their eyes met across the room. There had been a strange tension between them since that embrace outside Adamant. Something told her that Cullen had noticed it too, and that was his reason for this late approach.  
“Are you busy?” He wondered, hiding his boyish shyness behind military order, titles and command. He had probably hoped that she was fast asleep.  
Dirthara shook her head. She wasn’t busy, and that was a problem. She needed something to do to keep her focus. “Come in, Cullen. And close the door behind you, we have things to discuss.”  
Cullen sighed and nodded, but did as she had asked before he walked into the middle of the room. He was looking down at his feet, scratching his neck, and Dirthara knew that he would attempt to say something that he found difficult to talk about.  
“I just wanted to thank you for, uh…” Cullen grunted and shook his head. “You believed in me. You and Cassandra.”  
Yes. That. When he stopped taking lyrium, he became more… sensitive. As if he hadn’t been in touch with his emotions for a very long time. This was why Dirthara never touched the stuff - she had problems with emotions as it was.  
“I hope your memories aren’t…” Dirthara paused and looked away. Memories would always haunt you, no matter what, she was very well aware of that. “I hope the scars will heal.”  
“Eventually.” Cullen took another step further into the room. “There are others who have chosen to follow my example, and it is as if we see things clearly for the first time.”  
“I’m glad.” Dirthara crossed her arms over her chest and inhaled. “You and I - we’re alright?”  
Cullen looked up and nodded slowly, but with his eyebrows furrowed.  
“You don’t mind that I’m a mage?” Dirthara wondered, hoping to figure out where this tension had come from.  
Cullen shook his head, then looked away again, scratched himself behind his ear. He reminded her so much of Hamin, that Dirthara almost thought he might have been a bear in a former life; that fur over his shoulders hardly made the likeness less prominent. “I admit that I didn’t have much faith in you…” Cullen stated slowly, “and that this doubt was based on my distrust towards mages, but…”  
“Mages can be dangerous, and you have seen it with your own eyes”, Dirthara stated calmly.  
“Especially the inexperienced ones”, Cullen stated and lifted his gaze to meet hers again. “You are very young, Dir… Inquisitor, and this kind of responsibility shouldn’t…” He sighed and began to sidestep. “You know what, that is not in my place to say.”  
Dirthara chuckled. “No, no, you are right. I am both too young and too inexperienced for this position.”  
“Um… I…” Cullen looked down at his feet again. “I just needed to tell you that…” He hesitated before he grunted and lifted his head. “By Andraste, you are with Solas, and I don’t know how to say this without making it sound… weird.”  
Ah. That tension, it was because of that. “Cullen, just say what you need to say.”  
Cullen took a deep breath. “I just wanted you to know that if you ever needed anyone to talk to or… well, anything. I’m here for you. That was it.”  
Dirthara felt how that wall between them disappeared. “Thank you, I needed to hear that”, she said with a sigh.  
“So…” Cullen cleared his throat. “How are you holding up?”  
“I’m absolutely terrified”, Dirthara said and chuckled dryly. “After that ordeal in the Fade, I’m even afraid to go to sleep.” A half lie. It wasn’t the fear of Blight that kept her awake, it was Solas.  
“I can’t even imagine the horrors…” Cullen shuddered. “Well, if neither of us can sleep; how about a game of chess?”  
Dirthara nodded and smiled. “As long as you stop letting me win all the time, that is infuriating.”  
Cullen had already turned around and was about to open the door when he gave her a look over his shoulder. “I never let you win.”  
“Please, Cullen. I’m not a child!” Dirthara punched him lightly on the arm as they left her room, which was responded with a chuckle, a headlock and a playful noogie.

Cullen’s room looked pretty much like her own, but was crammed with all sorts of dummies, weapons and pieces of armor instead of books upon books and the occasional hairbrush. Oh, and he had a chessboard, Dirthara didn’t. As they began their game, they talked about everything but the Inquisition; his sisters, her clan, Leliana’s nug; but after a while they slipped into that common area anyway.  
“A little bird told me that we need to be at a certain ball in Orlais. To get there we will also need an invitation”, Dirthara murmured as she moved one of her pawns forward.  
Cullen made a grimace and studied the board. “Yes, that is what I hear too.”   
Dirthara nodded slowly. As she had expected, there had only been a dialogue between her advisors, nothing was yet written in stone. Cullen didn’t look like he thought this was a good idea, however.   
“From what I’ve heard, the War of the Lions have reached a stalemate in the Dales, due to rifts, demons and undead”, Dirthara continued.   
Cullen sighed and moved his knight. “Yes, that and bandits. The Freemen of the Dales, I believe they call themselves.”  
Dirthara studied the board and shook her head slowly. Cullen was up to something; he had many options, but she couldn’t quite figure out which one he’d go for. She decided to move her mage, because he’d steel it from her otherwise. “The little birds also told me that Gaspard’s men are unable to leave the region because of said hordes of undead. Is this something you can confirm and would you think it to be a stupid idea to aid Gaspard’s troops with the hope of gaining that invitation to the ball?”  
“They could probably leave the region without our help, but I doubt that the orders have come through.” Cullen looked up from the chessboard and met her gaze. “Gaspard is a man of action. The only way to gain his respect is through deeds - I think this idea of yours is worth a try. Should I bring troops, or are you going on your own?”  
“You have to make sure this fort is made into the outpost the Inquisition needs it to be. This one is the closest to the Imperial border and we want it to be imposing.” Dirthara took a deep breath. “I’ll travel through the Dales on my own. You have to remember, Cullen. I am not a soldier and because of that I find it easier to travel unseen.”  
Cullen nodded. “Smaller groups move faster. May I ask, what is your plan with Caer Bronach?”  
Yes, Cullen was Fereldan, and of course he wondered about that. Dirthara smiled. “Leliana have stationed her spies there and Josephine have been ordered to fashion it into a trading hub. The roads are safer now, and Caer Bronach’s proximity to the sea...”  
“Yes.” Cullen nodded. “It is close enough to Skyhold for Leliana’s birds, and in Ferelden we don’t need to pose a threat. Good thinking.”  
Dirthara began to laugh. “But we do in Orlais? You still don’t trust them, despite working beside Leliana for such a long time?”  
“Or rather, because of it”, Cullen replied with a snicker. “Alright, I’ll be setting things in motion here, and then I return to Skyhold.”  
Dirthara’s focus returned to the chessboard. “Wait, was it your turn or mine?”  
Cullen began to laugh. “I don’t know.”


	33. Of fears

Solas

Another couple of days went by without a word or even the slightest hint as to where Dirthara had gone, at least not until one morning when he was approached by an elven woman in the yard. One he recognized all too well, despite her efforts to convince the world that she was just another elf. A vallaslin upon her face showing her bond to Mythal, but she wasn’t Dalish; to Solas that was obvious. Yellow eyes, pale skin, almost transparent, and her blood writing showed an intricacy that modern elves couldn’t match. It didn’t fit at all with her servant’s outfit, and Solas was almost amused that nobody else had reacted to this contradictory facade.  
“Andaran atish’an, Fen”, the woman stated calmly, in an old dialect that only verified what Solas already knew about her. “Asha'bellanar sends her regards.”  
Solas nodded. Of course she did - in whatever shape she chose. “Andaran atish’an, Melanada. Any news?”  
Melanada. A sad name, really. To call oneself eternity showed devotion, and even though it was nothing but an act, it was still believable enough to fool the most.  
Melanada nodded slowly as a response to his question. “The little fennec stirs the waters and the Dales witnesses her light in awe. The ferocious lion is bewitched, the lioness stands curious. Asha'bellanar asks if your little fennec has the influence to do her a favor.”  
Solas jumped from surprise and furrowed his brows. “Little fennec? You have a reason for calling her that?”  
Melanda lifted one eyebrow and a humored smile curved her lips. “You didn’t know? She is the last of his bloodline. Her father knows that his crest is the wolf; why else, do you think, would a non believer wear Dirthamen’s mark of the wolf on his face?”  
Solas must have looked very confused, because Melanda snickered. “The father even was his priest once - in secret, of course. The Dalish never liked the forgotten ones.”  
“Anaris?” Solas could have laughed. Uncanny; that name had come to his mind as he watched Dirthara fight at Adamant. And maybe there was some newly found respect for Gesharel too; the man did after all have some backbone.  
Wait. Did that mean what he thought it meant? Did both Dirthara’s parents have ancestors in…  
Not that it mattered anymore. Whatever he and Dirthara once had, she had ended it. Solas cleared his throat.  
“I believe that the little fennec…” He paused. That parable felt strange to use, and a bit too close to home. “I believe she has enough leverage to be of help, yes.”  
Melanda had a quick look over her shoulder before she began to speak in a much lower voice. “There are whispers of the Lioness’ advisor. Your little mouse within the golden cage believes that the advisor is a sinister influence on the throne. Asha'bellanar believes that this advisor has one of the keys.”  
“The advisor, who happens to have my lost eluvian?” Solas smirked. “I thought I recognized her; before she disappeared.”  
“If she is who I believe her to be, she is the Morrighan’an of the next age, just as your little fennec is the harbinger. They must meet.”  
“If the little... “ Solas cleared his throat. “If she’s the harbinger, it is a bad omen. She carries one of the owls and I believe that the other one fights at her side.”  
Melanda blinked. “Father and daughter?”  
Solas nodded. “The daughter is as swift with her arrows as she’s always been, but she fears the dark. A memory, perhaps. The father, on the other hand…” Solas sighed and remembered how just a few words had been enough for the darkest desires to take over. “He is unstable and could pose a threat”, he added.  
“Then you should end the fennec.” Melanda shrugged, as if that solution was the easiest thing in the world. “The music plays, my friend, and so we dance. She’s your strongest piece - for now, but for how long?”  
“Yes, in an ordinary game of chess I would have agreed with you; sacrifice her for the greater good. In this case, however, that is impossible. For several reasons”, Solas stated as calmly as he could. His heart began to beat fast in his chest and his mouth became dry. End her? End her?! He could never do that! If that was her demand, then… no, never. He realized though, that he couldn’t have both. Would have to choose between her and the rest of the world at some point. If she didn’t die, of course… A horrible thought, but not far from the truth. Right now, he doubted that he’d see the day, she wore both the shadows as a cloak and brought guidance with her light - like the warriors under Falon’Din, she seemed invincible, but everything living would die eventually. The only thing one really could trust in life was death itself, and that was where she found her order. Maybe, when she had gone frail of old age… He hoped that he could wait that long.  
“We still need her. She bears the mark, and in this state I cannot take it back”, he continued with a low voice. “A spell like this one takes years to perfect.”  
Melanda stood quietly for a while and studied his face before she snickered. “Ah. I see. Men are so predictable. You’ve become the hound in a fox hunt. Shartan let the worm between his thighs do the thinking too; is this going to become a tradition?”  
Solas felt how the tips of his ears turned warm. “That was different.”  
“It is the same body, the same spirit pulling the strings; how could it possibly be different?” Melanda tilted her head to the side with a teasing smile playing on her lips.  
Solas found a loose thread in the sleeve of his tunic and began to roll it between his fingers. “Because last time it was the spirit walking by her side that made the difference.”  
“Your own reflection.” Melanda lifted one brow. “Oh, my. You really are proud.”  
“Of course. Why else was this name given to me?” Solas glared at her. “I was born into this shape because of what I had done before - what my father did, what he was killed for, and the son… I was His heir. Was to carry his memories through time.”  
It wasn’t much more than a flinch, but enough for Solas to see that she remembered. It all started with the music that his father had loved, the intricate melodies that he learned, and how Mythal had listened. Only Mythal. After that followed intrigues and everything turned to dust.  
“This time it’s different”, Solas continued with a calmer voice. “The fennec changes everything. She’s...” Solas paused, didn’t know how to describe it properly. “She is real, the wisp of the owl is not just a spirit traveling by her side. The fennec... If she can be real, then so could everyone.”  
“Are you meaning to say that you’ve grown a conscience, old friend?” Melanda snorted in disbelief. “That every little pawn on your board is a vessel for one of your people?”  
“I… I don’t know for sure yet.” Solas looked down at his feet. “The spirits follow lineages, and I haven’t seen anything like this since…”  
“Since you yourself was asked to do the same.” Melanda nodded slowly. “Yes, I see your point.”  
“No, I animated the body of my dead son - the son who was killed when he took the form of a dragon on his mother’s suggestion to avenge my death.” Bitter memories drenched his words with venom. He didn’t carry just his own wisdom; he remembered what both the father and the son had known too, endured both their pain and anger even though it had subdued after all these years - he was just weaker. “I was tied to him with blood writing before I even had the chance to mourn him…” Solas felt how his anger was getting out of hand and collected himself before he would turn into that snarling beast that he never wanted to be. He inhaled, then held his breath while counting to three before he exhaled.  
“This woman, on the other hand, was born with him - with the owl”, he stated with an almost serene voice when he dared to speak again. “You know, as well as I do, that a vallaslin doesn’t bind the spirit to a physical form anymore; that the hive mind of the followers have been lost, and by that you also know that the owl is here on his own accord.”  
Melanda offered him an enigmatic little smile. “And through the ages, you found your shadow and he found his reflection.”  
Solas just sighed and shook his head. “That is irrelevant. In the grand scheme, I wonder if we can save them all.”  
“In the grand scheme, you should be happy if anyone survives.” Melanda let out a cackling laughter that echoed between the walls.  
Yes, that was exactly what he feared.

“Solas?” Leliana’s voice. She sounded concerned.  
“Yes?” Solas looked up from the book he was reading and put his cup of herbal tea on the desk. A scent of lavender rested in the air, the soothing scent that promised a good night’s sleep. Lady Nightingale stood in the door frame just by the stairs leading up and she looked remarkably pale, or maybe it was just the light. It was getting late and his everburning lantern of veilfire made everything look sickly green.  
“I’ve received word from the Free Marches.” Leliana walked into the room, and it wasn’t until now Solas could see a piece of paper in her hand.  
“At this hour?” Solas stood up from his seat.  
Leliana sat down on the edge of his desk with a sigh. “You need to talk to the Inquisitor. We have to act fast.”  
“What is this about?” Solas’ heart took a leap in his chest. Talk to Dirthara? He couldn’t even find her! It used to be so easy to travel between the realms, but with this damned body and this damned veil… Felassan was dead, wouldn’t do what tranquil did if Solas left to search the Void.  
Besides, she didn’t want to be found, the stubborn woman.  
“New information regarding Duke Antoine of Wycome.” Leliana crumpled the rolled piece of paper in her fist. “He is up to something, and he’s using the Inquisitor’s clan as a scapegoat to settle his nobles. We need to take action.”  
Solas nodded slowly. “The Inquisitor is in the Exalted Plains...”  
“Yes, so I’ve heard.” Leliana bit her bottom lip. “Cullen sent me a report, mentioning her plans.”  
“She has Grand Duke Gaspard around her little finger and is already on her way home”, Solas stated calmly, even though that had been an exaggeration. He hoped that his words wouldn’t turn around and bite him in his tail. “I would suggest that you discuss this with the Inquisitor when she returns; I doubt that she would like my involvement in this matter.”  
Especially if something went wrong and especially now.  
Leliana sat quiet on his desk for a moment before she nodded and stood up. “Thank you Solas. You’re right.”  
This information made Solas slightly nervous, however. It was something in Leliana’s silence that told him she would take drastic actions if it wasn’t discussed. He needed to find Dirthara, contact her in some way and make sure that she hurried back to Skyhold. She wouldn’t talk to him, so the only solution he had was to send someone else. Someone who wasn’t bound to the mortal world, someone who could travel between the realms without hindrance.  
Fear.  
There had been times when Fear was the only one who could see the worst outcomes in every scenario; where Deceit was the only one who understood how to circumvent such situations. Mabe that was why Solas felt so comfortable in Leliana’s company. She sat here in the aviary with her crows and knew things most people shouldn’t even be aware of. She was a dangerous woman hiding behind a smile, and Solas was glad about two things: that she was on his side and that she couldn’t shape her dreams. The things she would have known and done if she could…

Dirthara

She fought. That was who she was; even the Nightmare had told her so. A killer. Dirthara would have to accept that, but that was not what she wanted to be. She never hoped to see the remains of the Dales through a blood drenched screen, but this was apparently what kept her focused. Death was silence and silence was truth; if this was how she guided people through the night, then so be it.  
But it made her think. Every evening - she found it harder and harder to fall asleep and had to force herself into a night’s rest when the sky was painted pink in the first beams of sunlight. Plot-bunnies. That was what Varric had called them, but his description was sweet and fluffy, harmless. Her thoughts…  
She twisted and turned in her bedroll, heard Dorian mutter something in his sleep by her side. Something about angry carnivorous gerbils eating all his soup. Harmless, that too. He always seemed so unafraid, so confident, and yet she knew it was nothing but a facade. He concealed his terrors behind a laughter. How did he manage? After all they had been through, how did he endure?  
If nothing else, it had been a valuable lesson, travelling through the Nightmare’s realm. Dirthara learnt something about herself, and since it didn’t kill her…  
She turned around again with a grunt and stared into the ceiling of the tent when she came to realize something that she never thought of before.  
Wasn’t it rather curious, how Corypheus; who according to her father was a devoted follower of Dumat, the dragon of Silence; chose to join forces with a demon of fear, since Dirthamen; the silent god of secrets; had done the same? Dirthara never was a believer, but too many strange occurrences made her see things she would have doubted only years earlier. It had been discussed among learned men that there were parallels to be drawn between the Evanuris and the Old Gods, but this was a bit too much to just brush aside as a coincidence. She doubted that Dumat and Dirthamen was one and the same; In elven lore it was only Mythal who had been pictured with dragon like features. If Dirthamen had been a dragon, wouldn’t he have been pictured like one too?  
Furthermore, was Nightmare the Fear from the stories - the raven, the one Dirthamen had bound to himself to reach the Void? It would explain his strength, and why there had been statues of ravens in his realm, all of them in pairs. But the Claw of Dumat… It had been there too, and the claw almost looked like a stylized shape of a fear demon too.  
Damn it, this was giving her a headache. All of her hypothetical answers only opened up for more questions. Was Dirthamen real, for example? If he was, what had he been? A spirit? A hero? Both? Her father always stated that nothing was divine, that power was something forced upon others. If he was right, then did it mean that… Wait.  
Spirits and demons.  
It all returned to that.  
In that case, the Fear that they had met was ancient. If he was Dirthamen’s fear, it meant that Dirthamen knew about the Blight long before it actually happened - this demon had been fed with the fear for a very long time, long before the first Blight. Was it an unavoidable future seen through the eyes of an elf or a spirit in the ancient days, or was the world already blighted in the days of the Evanuris?  
She hardly noticed how she drowsed into her sleep; only realized that she was asleep when she confirmed that Dorian wasn’t resting by her side in her tent anymore. She was alone, but the tent looked the same down to every little detail. The spirits whispered around her, told her of the fabric in the tent, how the light was just perfect for a book, that there was rain in the air and that about fifteen earwigs were hiding under the carpet she had rolled out on the ground. The spirits didn’t need her to nudge them in the right direction anymore, they built her scene as if they knew what she wanted when she arrived. She could not yet see them, but she hoped that she one day would.  
Solas probably did.  
It hurt to think of him. It hurt so much. Like daggers piercing her heart to then be twisted, causing her to bleed even more. To think, she actually thought he might understand.  
No, that was a lie. She never thought that; if she had, she wouldn’t have hesitated to tell him. And how about Dirth? How would Solas react if he found out about that?  
And who was he, really? Not an ordinary Pride demon, that was for sure. The all-seeing eyes in his forehead had been there, but instead of that usual color of blue, his had been red and his skin had been as black as night.  
Which reminded her: she should hide, and fast. At least until she had collected enough nerves to talk to him again - it wasn’t really on her priority list right now, and he had been looking for her. She had sensed his presence and stayed away with hopes to wait until she returned to Skyhold, and in all fairness, that could wait…  
Dirthara paused mid thought and sat up in her tent.  
Something wasn’t right. There was a different vibration…  
It wasn’t Solas, but something else. Strangely familiar, as it came closer. Something she recognized a bit too well. She held her breath and listened as her heart raced. Images of her darkest nightmares flashing through her head, a world swallowed in shadows and nothing else but her. A swift end, she had thought, it would end all the suffering. The presence made her mouth dry as she stared out into the darkness.  
“Fear of fear itself.” A snicker from outside her tent. A man’s voice. “That is either very smart or exceedingly stupid.”  
“Fear can turn the most peaceful creature into a vicious killer”, Dirthara replied as calmly as she could before she crawled out of her tent. That was where her scene ended and the empty Fade began. A tall man, much taller than herself stood outside, waiting. She couldn’t see his face under the black cloak, but she almost expected him to have a lipless grin from ear to ear and razor sharp teeth. “When you lose all hope, there isn’t much left”, she added and swallowed.  
The cloaked man drew closer and a bony hand reached out of his garment. Cool fingers tracing over her cheek to her chin, a gentle touch that still gave her shivers. She didn’t dare to look up, wasn’t sure of what she might see, so when he tilted her face upwards to meet his, she closed her eyes with a gasp. She needed to stay calm. Fear fed on fear, he wouldn’t leave her alone until he lost interest.  
Inhale, two, three, four, five, exhale, seven, eight, nine, ten.  
“I have walked by your side for a long time, little cub”, he said slowly. Dirthara lost count of her breaths when she realized how close he was. “Maybe, with time, you will grow as strong as you once were, but until then your worst fear can never become true”, he continued, his voice just a caress.  
Dirthara opened her eyes with confusion and furrowed her brows. His face was still hidden in shadows, but she could see the teeth glimmer like metal, reflected in the faded lights around her. “What…?”  
The cold fingers hardened around her chin. “Your fears are sweet, little one; so full of old sadness and anger. A defeated sun, trapped in a mirror until the light became blinding and everything went black. The stars in the night sky are all that is left of that former glory, and here you stand. One shard, pale in comparison, but still as captivating. Do you remember anything at all?”  
Dirthara hesitated. Something about this… encounter was very strange. The Fear in front of her was nothing like the horrors she had seen in the realms of Nightmare, nothing like her terrors before she learned how to keep them away.  
“What is it you want me to remember?” she asked, not sure if she wanted to know. It was probably something horrible, something he could feed on for a lifetime. At the same time, he had piqued her curiosity. So much so that she forgot to be afraid.  
“When the time comes, little wolf, the darkness will swallow us all. Remember then that it always was your purpose. Until that day comes; guide them. You are needed in Skyhold. Go home.”  
What was this vague nonsense? “Aren’t you supposed to scare me?” Dirthara wondered, slightly disappointed with that answer.  
Fear laughed. “The thrills of eminent danger ever tingling on your skin, little horrors to keep you on your toes - yes, but I was strictly forbidden. If you like, I can tell you what happens if you don’t return to Skyhold.” He let go of her chin and took a step back. “Your people will die.”  
Dirthara gasped for air, as if she had forgotten to breathe.  
“What fear are you?” she dared to ask as she tried to make out his features in the shadows under his hood. “Why have you come here?”  
Fear hesitated and Dirthara could feel his gaze upon her even though she knew that fear demons didn’t have eyes. “I am a simple temple priest”, he finally stated. “My purpose is to deliver truth, and that I have done.”  
“A… a priest?” Dirthamen’s priests had been fear demons? What purpose had Deceit then filled in that history?  
“I am always close, if you ever need a word”, he continued, as if her question had passed him unnoticed. “Be fearful and I shall come.”  
He lifted his arms, turned into a raven and flew away with a caw that echoed through the empty Fade around her. Dirthara sighed and shook her head. This was becoming more and more surreal. If only Solas had been here… No.


	34. Some drinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer between chapters - I'm very sorry for that. It's summer, and I have a writing challenge going, like every other year. A completely different story written in a completely different language ;)

Solas

It had been a warm day that turned into a warm evening. So hot, in fact, that Solas had opened the door to the barricade outside to let some air in, but there was no wind. Sweating like a pig, he had moved his work outside in the shade of the aviary, just outside his door. Leaning his back against the cool rock, he managed to read the entire The Maker's First Children, by Bader, Senior Enchanter of Ostwick. Bader had offered some interesting theories, but nothing new, and certainly not anything on what Solas was looking for. He was starting to think that he might be forced to turn to the Avvar after all. He needed to understand this. Mortals were so much… more than he had expected. Maybe he had forgotten, being in the Fade for such a long time; spirits had a tendency to be what you expected of them, whilst people... They were either the hosts of very complex spirits to begin with, or they grew together, learned about the world together, gave it shape...  
Ah. That would actually explain things. Well, it was a theory, but he couldn’t validate it without proof, and the only way to find proof was to study a subject. Someone without magic abilities. Or maybe everybody carried a sliver of magic? Cassandra wasn’t just defined by the Faith that had touched her; her abilities weren’t tied to her body alone. Cassandra wouldn’t agree, but maybe Blackwall? No, he was a Warden. The taint in him could probably change things... Sera was an elf, enough said. She wouldn’t suffice. Cullen was dulled by all his years of Lyrium use and Bull… Well, he was something different altogether, there was dragon blood in him and it changed him. The only person, really, who couldn’t have magic in him was Varric, but strangely there had to be something else in him that made him… him.   
To think of it, did he know anyone except the tranquil that didn’t have some form of magic within themselves?  
Well, it was theory that he’d like to delve deeper into, certainly, because that would give him some really curious results. For example, would the shorter lifespans of the people of today shape immature spirits that were easily corrupted? Would that be the reason for all these demons? Hm...  
But if that was true, then how could he explain Dirthara? An old spirit in such a frail body; there had to be a reason. And was it just to mock him that Melanada had called her a little fennec? The Dalish stories told of the foxes trading their secrets with Andruil for wings, but in reality it had been a much younger wolf; an impatient loudmouth. He carried much on his conscience for that deed alone.   
That little secret gave Andruil access to the Void, and for what? He won the shape of a dragon, and with that he accomplished nothing but getting himself executed. His body had remembered, just as this body remembered, and everytime he merged with a new mind something else was added. His own father tore the wings off him first and then The Allfather ended the spirit that had been him, and since then the memories had been all there was.   
Would Dirthara make the same mistakes he had done, and what would her punishment be? She was just as restless as he had been, albeit slightly less impetuous and more calculating, but she didn’t know what awaited her beyond the next corner.  
Commotion from the yard below broke his train of thought. He stood up and looked down, leaning on the balustrade. His heart took a leap when he saw a character in different shades of white ride in high speed towards the stables; her unkempt hair in pale waves behind her, the coat she always wore not as white anymore, and a white stags as her mount. Dirthara was back. It was a striking scene, and it had to be deliberate. He followed her with his eyes as she skipped off the back of the hart, rushed up the stairs towards…   
Oh, she was coming this way! Damn, he needed safe ground. Inside, where everyone could hear and see; he would keep his focus, and hopefully, so would she. Solas’ mouth became dry and he collected all his things with shaking hands before he returned inside. He did not want to meet her one-on-one right now, wasn’t ready for that, didn’t know what to think of anything yet. He left the door open, but took a rather casual stance by his desk with the book in his lap, cold sweat running along his spine despite this damned heatwave. Looking busy, looking busy, a struggle to not lift his head to look; even though he read the same sentence over and over again, he wasn’t collected enough to take it in. He was focused on the door, the sounds from outside, her scent. He hardly heard her entering the tower, as usual; if it hadn’t been for a loud inhale as she reached the rotunda, but the scent of her… It always reached him first. Solas looked up and met Dirthara’s glance. She had stopped just inside the door, shoulders lifted and eyes wide open. A moment passed when they just stared at each other, and Solas wasn’t sure of what to say or do to keep this civil. He both wanted to kiss her and hit her in the face at the same time, and he would never do the latter. From the look on her face, he could almost bet that Dirthara felt the same. Solas swallowed.  
“Oh, it’s you.” He realized that it had sounded unnecessarily petty as he returned his gaze to his book; he had only aimed for nonchalant, but his hurt feelings were hard to conceal. She had abandoned him, not the other way around. He didn’t want that, never wanted that; he had hoped that… No, in all honesty he didn’t know what he had hoped.  
Dirthara snorted. “Excuse me, I need to reach the aviary, but your ego is in the way. Could you please…?”  
Yes, of course. He was being at fault here too, because she was a woman and in an argument with a woman, she would always have the last word…  
Well... She might have been right on one point - he had done things he regretted too - but she was making the same mistakes again. Solas closed the book with a snap and placed it on the desk.   
“Oh dear. Did I hurt your feelings when I implied your lack of knowledge? I really thought you already knew.” He lifted his head again and looked at her. She was angry. Very angry, from the looks of things. He could see that from the fire in her eyes, how she bit her jaws together, but she stayed composed with a crooked smile on her lips. It slowly turned into that sweet but completely cold facade she used when talking to strangers and Solas shuddered. He hated that face, that smile; it was like a barrier keeping him out and he never knew what to expect.  
“Yes, as always let’s just drop everything we’re doing to pay attention to you and all of your needs, or else you might imply that we’re all ignorant.” Dirthara shook her head and rolled her eyes as she turned to walk across the room towards the stairs up.   
“I keep forgetting that I only exist when you need me for something”, she muttered as she passed his table.  
That last sentence really hit a nerve. Solas chuckled. “Oh, sweetheart, you are really thinking highly of yourself. I don’t need you for anything at all.” He lifted his book again with a pounding heart as he pretended not to notice how she turned around to make a rude gesture in his direction.   
“Now, if you’re not part of the solution to my problem, please subtract yourself. You already know the way”, he added. He didn’t look up again until she was about to leave the room.  
He followed her back with a glance as she disappeared up the stairs and exhaled when he couldn’t see her anymore. With his pulse drumming in his ears, he was just glad that he wasn’t standing up at the moment, his legs felt like jelly and his hands were shaking. She caused so much commotion; flashes of warm and cold, he couldn’t help but despising the fact that she didn’t comprehend, that she didn’t seem to be able to see how her actions changed everything about her, how her deeds was a reminder of something much worse and and a pointer to where it all could escalate. At the same time... He just wanted to embrace her to know that she really was alive, tell her that everything would be alright; every sweet little lie that would give her comfort. Let her relax if only for a moment, because when she was calm, she eased his own nerves just by being close.   
Most of all, Solas wanted to feel her soft skin under his fingertips, her lips, her taste… Base needs, so intense that he hated being tied to a mortal body. Too many emotions; he had been so worried, so desperately worried, and he had been so uncontrollably angry, sad. No, disappointed was the right word, and all these conflicting feelings gave him a headache. He never loved like this before and it was painful, confusing and... Was this how it was supposed to be? The conversation he had had with Melanada the day before forced him to see things from a new perspective, but it wasn’t easy. Dirthara was destined to cross his path, she was the harbinger of a new age. She was order and would awaken a time of chaos; she would shout to the skies in defiance. In the Fade he’d seen her in every reality - well, not her, but the spirit. It took different shapes, and with these shapes it chose different paths. He befriended some of them, despised others, but when it came to Dirthara… Her mind was different and in every reality he would fall head over heels for her. Because of that, he had asked himself the same question over and over: if this was the real thing - why now? Nothing ever happened without a reason, there had to be some sort of simple mathematical formulae…  
Voices echoing in the stairs leading to the aviary, Dirthara and Leliana talking in a hushed tone. Solas looked up when they reached the arched doorway and entered his room. Dirthara was pale, but looked hard-set, Leliana restless. They moved silently across the room without even offering him a glance and Solas understood what this was all about. Dirthara’s clan. She wished to save her people, just as much as he wished to save his. The two women left as fast as they entered and the silence that filled the room when the door closed behind their backs was almost choking. The crows cawed above his head and broke that fragile moment. Solas sighed and looked down at the book in his lap again. What was the use. He hardly needed to read this, he had the proof. Dirthara was the proof that they all could be real, that they all were here on free will. They weren’t forced to stay in this world, and maybe that was better? For Dirthara’s sake he hoped that her people learned from their spirits just as much as the spirits learned from them; the elves had been made from air to be docile and easy to mold and they needed to fight that nature to survive.  
Solas stood up from his chair, dropped the book with a smack on the desk and left the room. If Dirthara was back, so was Dorian, and Solas needed to speak with him about these shards, whether he wanted it or not. That… drunkard was probably at the Herald’s Rest together with Varric. They were most certainly already involved in drinking and gambling - because why not?

Dirthara

“We’re here.” Dirthara crossed her arms to hide her shaking hands in her armpits as her eyes darted back and forth between Leliana and Josephine. Feet side-stepping in front of the war table, heart pounding, but she did at least manage to keep her voice stable. “Det you get words from my clan? How are they doing?”  
Leliana and Josephine exchanged a quick glance on the other side of the table, which only made Dirthara even more nervous. Were they in danger? Did she need to go there herself to get results?  
“We have a letter…” Josephine began, but was hastily interrupted by Dirthara.  
“From Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan.” The words tumbled out of her mouth.  
Leliana and Josephine exchanged another glance before they shook their heads simultaneously.  
“From Jester”, Leliana replied silently. “Wycome has experienced some sort of plague, and curiously enough it only affects humans. The Knife-Eared Plague they call it...”  
“Antoine’s surreptitious move against the Dalish was an attempt to convince his nobles that he was taking action”, Josephine continued when Leliana paused.  
Dirthara’s feet stopped moving about and she felt cold chills run down her spine. Something was wrong, something had to be terribly wrong - why else would her two advisors behave like this? Dirthara’s mouth went dry. “My clan...”  
Leliana hesitated. “There were losses, Inquisitor.”  
“Losses…” Dirthara leaned against the desk to keep the room from spinning and took a deep breath. Her eyes locked on the first point she saw on the large map; the dense forests of The Arbor Wilds. The wildlands that even the Dalish elves had shunned, despite the tales of ancient elven ruins in its depths. She swallowed as her eyes focused on the little details in the map. “Is my mother… Is Keeper…”  
“Keeper Istimaethoriel is alive and well, but your clan has suffered great losses.” Leliana’s voice was surprisingly calm, as if she talked about where to buy a nice pair of socks for a fair price. “Jester can’t accomplish much more in Wycome, people are suspicious and he’s left the city, but I could have an assassin deal with a certain lord…”  
“That would be a bit rash.” Josephine walked around the table and placed a hand on Dirthara’s shoulder. “Antoine still thinks he’s an ally to the Inquisition. My people could come closer without stirring up more chaos.”  
“A bit rash…” Dirthara chuckled dryly and took another deep breath. “And while we wait, my clan will be completely decimated. I should have sent the troops, I should have…”  
But Cullen wasn’t there. What would be her safest option? If she had Antoine assassinated, it would probably cause some confusion, but would it make things worse? She couldn’t ask Cullen to send in his templars to deal with the situation and Josephine’s alternative would take time. Something she was sure of that she didn’t have. Dirthara was too closely involved to keep her head cool. “I need results”, she continued as calmly as she could. “Leliana, deal with it.”  
“Inquisitor.” Leliana left the war room after a quick bow.  
“Josephine.” Dirthara continued to stare on those detailed drawings of green trees on the map without really seeing them. “With Antoine gone, there will be a succession war in Wycome. Make sure the right heir takes his place and find out what’s causing this… Knife-Eared Plague. Something about this doesn’t smell right.”

Dirthara didn’t remember how or when she left the war table, couldn’t even recall what Josephine had answered her. She had found her way down to the Herald’s Rest but couldn’t figure out what had drawn her there, even wondered why she was there when she opened the door. The first person she saw was Solas - or rather, his back, but she would recognize him anywhere, even in a hall full of men with shaved heads - and he was sitting by a round table with Bull and Dorian. Dirthara stopped in the door as her stomach made a flip that made her want to throw up. She was just about to turn around and leave when Dorian lifted his gaze and smiled.  
“Ah, my princess has arrived!” Dorian stood up from the table and made an inviting gesture towards his chair, Iron Bull smiled, but his eyes were on Dorian.   
“Your princess?” Iron Bull repeated with a snort, “Are you thinking of her while you polish that staff of yours?”  
Dorian groaned and rolled his eyes. “Inquisitor, come. Have a glass of wine with us.”  
“I shouldn’t…” Dirthara took a step backwards towards the door.  
“Shouldn’t?” Dorian frowned. “That is a statement used by people that know they aren’t living life at its fullest. One glass. Apparently, I’m not a reliable source.”  
Dirthara’s eyes fell on Solas’ back again. His shoulders risen, the cup of tea in his hand just kept there as if he didn’t know what to do with it.  
“As if I’m not reliable.” Dorian continued as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Besides, every good story needs a bit of flair.”  
“A bit of flair.” Iron Bull chuckled. The wood in his chair whined when he leaned backwards against the rest. ”You’re full of it, Sparkles.”   
Dorian walked across the room and offered Dirthara his arm. “Tell him, please.”  
Dirthara furrowed her brows and her gaze darted back and forth between the Qunari and the Vint as she let herself be led towards the table. Not without some resistance; she wasn’t sure of how she would behave around Solas at the moment. “What?”  
“Sparkles tells me that you physically entered the Fade, Sera just spits and curses and Blackwall… Well, he’s being Blackwall.” Bull pointed towards the bar where Sera and Blackwall were sitting as he reached for his pitcher of ale on the table.  
“We did really enter the Fade”, Dirthara murmured, and realized that this table was one person short. Varric was missing. She sank down on the chair between Dorian and Solas with a sigh and did what she could to ignore the elf. His mere existence made that difficult, but she tried. “We lost Hawke.”  
Solas inhaled loudly by her side, Iron Bull and Dorian exchanged a long glance.  
“Damn.” Iron Bull lifted his pitcher to his mouth with a thoughtful look on his face and drank.  
“I told you.” Dorian replied, and after that the conversation around their table died until Solas cleared his throat and lifted his cup of tea.  
“To Hawke.”  
To hear his voice was enough for her stomach to flutter. Dirthara looked down at her hands that rested in her lap as she repeated those two words together with Dorian and Bull:  
“To Hawke.”  
The others drank, but Dirthara didn’t even lift her face.   
“I take it, you didn’t know”, she murmured as the men put their glasses down. “I sent a bird with word, the very same evening; I guess it only reached Varric.”  
Dorian cursed and waved with his hand to get the attention of the barmaid. “This is ridiculous. Why are we sitting here dampening our spirits when the spirits should dampen us?”  
“For once, I agree.” Solas emptied his cup of tea and placed the cup firmly on the table. “We are alive now. Death will come to us all.”  
Dirthara remembered a certain gravestone in the Fade that, at the time, almost made her weep. Now, only about a week later, she gave Solas’ profile a long glance and swallowed a snide remark about dying alone before it left her tongue.   
“Yes. Because in the end, life is nothing but a really long story about how you died”, she muttered instead, which caused a remarkably strange effect on all three of the men. Solas flinched, Dorian snickered and Bull managed to do both at the same time.  
“Sweetheart, you are far too young to be that bitter”, Dorian pointed out, just as the barmaid reached their table.  
Dirthara shrugged. “Said by the man born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Try being optimistic when you don’t even have enough to keep the wolf off the door.”  
Solas flinched again, but this time Dirthara couldn’t see why. Not that it mattered. She turned her gaze to Dorian and offered him a warm smile as he paid the girl for the wine. She left four glasses on their table.  
“Yes, yes. Life is a beautiful lie and death is a painful truth.” Dorian poured the wine into the glasses. “Now we’re all depressed; how does that make you any happier?”  
“I agree with her.” Iron Bull leaned forward and grabbed the glass in front of him. It looked impishly small in his large hands and he swallowed the content in one gulp. “Grab the things you want in life, otherwise you’ll end up miserable and lonely.”  
Dirthara couldn’t have said it better, and Solas reacted just as she would have expected. A third shudder before he furrowed his brows and reached for one of the glasses. She couldn’t hold back a snicker.   
Iron Bull gave the wine a disappointed look and grabbed his pitcher instead.  
“Well then. May truth come to you all, my friends.” Dirthara lifted her glass in a salute and made sure Solas heard the word ‘truth’.   
“Preferably later”, Iron Bull stated, but nodded and followed her example.  
“It will likely occur when one of us is being sarcastic at the wrong time.” Dorian lifted his glass too.   
“Or on one of her suicide missions”, Bull pointed out with a nod towards Dirthara, which had both him and Dorian laughing.  
“Yes, let’s drink to that.” Solas leaned forward and rested one of his elbows on the table with a sigh. A quick smile brushed over his face, but in reality he looked tired. “To suicide missions and what we all may learn.” He offered Dirthara a quick glance and their eyes met for a brief second before he looked away.  
“To suicide missions!” Dorian and Iron Bull shouted in chorus, but Dirthara didn’t feel like drinking to that. May you learn. Dirthara-ma. It was a curse, one best replied with irony - or another curse.  
“Fen'Harel var vehn ghilana, Fen'Harel var vehn halam”, Dirthara replied with a sardonic smile. Because why not. Everything seemed to turn to shit, so of course the Dread Wolf was guiding them, and if he really was, it would be their end and they would most certainly learn something from it. Solas’ facial expression and the way he squirmed on his seat was worth it, so she drank to that. Amusing really, how a man with so little respect for religion could find curses that disturbing.  
“Alright then…” Dorian gave Dirthara a quizzical glance and raised his glass again. “Cheers, to whatever you say, my dove.”  
After that they drank to Corypheus, to his dragon, to the Fear in the Abyss, to Antoine in Wycome and to stupid bears that didn’t know when to keep their mouths shut, to ignorant fathers and to scheming mothers. It didn’t take long for it to turn into a blur of drinking for the point of drinking itself, since their reasons became more and more nonsensical as the evening went. As long as they were mocking things they disliked, it was all fair. It continued with some singing, laughing, maybe a bit of crying (at least on her part) and that was when Dirthara ended up in Dorian’s lap. His hair was brittle under her fingertips and he smelled of bergamot and cedar. He had her snickering through her tears soon however, whispering slurred jokes in her ear, and by then Dirthara was drunk enough to forget what it was she had been crying about. She roared with laughter and others joined in when she tried to explain what had been so funny, but her tongue didn’t obey her. Maybe that was what amused the others. Dirthara was suddenly swept up on her feet by Solas when the bard began to play a jig. They danced, even though she didn’t know the steps, they laughed and tumbled into each other’s arms, and she completely failed to remember that she was angry with him. In their state of temporary drunken euphoria, Solas must have too; when they returned to the table, his arm was around her waist, and he pulled her into his lap as he sat down in his chair. By then, the Chargers had joined their group, but had Sera and Blackwall been around for longer or did they show up later? Dirthara wasn’t sure. Sera was eating a pie under the table together with Dalish, singing along with the bard, if it was after or before Solas grabbed Dirthara by then chin and kissed her she couldn’t remember. There had been a remark, Dorian’s voice through a haze, telling them to get a room and Dirthara vaguely remembered leaving the Herald’s Rest with Solas. A cold night after that warm day; the scent of snow in the air, his warm lips over hers, calloused hands cupping her face and all that made sense in this daze was him. Hushed whispers, snickers when they clumsily stumbled up the stairs towards her room in the tower, tearing at each other’s clothes. She couldn’t remember how they even got there, just realized that they had when she fell backwards on top of her bed with Solas over her.


	35. The walk of shame

Solas

The ambiance at the Herald’s Rest that evening was irrepressible; people singing around the tables, dancing laughing. The few soldiers that had returned from the west with Dirthara instead of staying at the Griffon Wing Keep had stories out of this world and from the sounds of it they were lucky to be alive. It was difficult to hear Dorian’s side of the tale even though the mage spoke with a loud voice.  
“...And then, the entire wall crumbled. We ran, all of us, but it was already too late; I was clambering on to an edge, the Inquisitor reached out a hand to help me up and then the floor collapsed under her feet. We all fell. The strangest feeling, floating in the air like that…” Dorian paused and had a sip of wine from his glass. Solas realized that his calm approach to all of this was just a facade; the man was still shaken and hid it behind this artificial calmness that too much wine could offer. Or elfroot, apparently. Solas furrowed his brows and cleared his throat.  
“At first, it feels like you’re flying”, Dorian continued. “You feel completely weightless, because when you’re that far up… It took a moment to grasp the fact that we were falling to our deaths, but when I did... At that moment, my mind went blank, and then my entire life flashed before my eyes. I remembered everything I thought I had forgotten, and there were so many things I wished I had handled differently, so many people that I wanted to see for a last time just to…” Dorian cleared his throat and emptied his glass of wine, poured himself another one before he opened his mouth to speak again. “Then our Inquisitor opened a rift in the veil, large enough to swallow us all. We stopped falling.”  
“Wait. You fell into one of those demon holes?” Iron Bull snickered at first, then he began to laugh and soon enough he laughed so hard that he could have fallen off his chair.  
Solas studied the two of them as he sipped from his tea. Chamomile, with half a teaspoon of honey and a dash of lemon. “I heard in the Fade that the Inquisitor was walking through the realms of Fear, but physically?” Solas shook his head and snickered too. Dirthara wasn’t powerful enough to enter the Fade on her own; at least not without blood magic; how on Thedas could she possibly have made a rift large enough to bring the entire group? Dorian was, just like Varric, fond of exaggerations.  
“In that case, you will not believe a single word…” Dorian turned his gaze towards the door and interrupted himself abruptly as a warm smile spread on his lips. Solas knew who he had seen, from that face alone, before the mage spoke. “Ah, my princess has arrived!”  
Mixed feelings made Solas’ stomach flip and his heart flutter. Anger towards Dorian for his good looks, his intelligence, for him being so… damn charming. Sadness over what he himself had lost, since Dirthara chose to turn her back at him. An indescribable joy that she was there, that excited flow through his every vein when his heart already could recognize the scent of lilies of the valley through the spilled beer and smell of sweat and blood, and at the same time pain because his head knew that his heart wouldn’t get what it wanted. She wasn’t his anymore, if she ever had been. When she sat down between him and Dorian at the table, Solas could hardly hear a single word she said because of the pulse pounding in his ears. Mouth dry, cold sweat; this was fear and he couldn’t understand why. She was just a Dalish girl who played with fire, and she wasn’t about to end his life. His own insecurities on the surface of his skin, how it was of utmost importance that she never saw them, because if she looked at him the way others had in the past… No, he couldn’t stand that hate and disgust, not in her eyes. He hardly dared to look at her as she spoke, her voice weak as if she was about to break to pieces.   
“We did really enter the Fade”, she whispered, as she studied her shaking hands, clasped them in her lap and swallowed. “We lost Hawke.”  
The room began to spin and Solas thought that he would throw up. So it was true. Dorian had been telling the truth, and they… A risk, a huge risk; her mind was much stronger than her body. Solas had Hawke to thank for her return; he was certain of it, because he knew Dirthara all too well. She was stubborn and all to willing to risk her own life for the sake of others, almost thoughtlessly.  
And Varric… Solas hadn’t seen him in days, he must be… Solas felt horrible; he hadn’t even wondered where Varric was. It was with sadness for the loss of a hero, sadness for his friend the dwarf who had lost a close friend, relief for the life the Champion of Kirkwall had given in return for his own and guilt for that relief that Solas cleared his throat and lifted his cup of tea in a salute. “To Hawke.”  
He drank from his tea, but his nerves were all in knots and shambles; Dorian’s excessive drinking felt more and more reasonable. When Dorian expressed his frustration and proposed more wine, Solas wasn’t one to disagree.

And the wine was a relief, especially after all of Dirthara’s innuendos. Innocent words in the ears of others, but Solas knew better. They laughed at their fears, sang to its glory, mocked everything that ever stood in their way, and as Solas let the alcohol warm his limbs, soften his edge and for the first time in a really long time let go of all his worries, his life became this moment; here and now, not yesterday or tomorrow. He got a bit too drunk too fast, hadn’t been eating regularly during the day and hadn’t touched wine since… well, it was long enough to make his head spin after just one glass. He still didn’t dare to talk to Dirthara, not directly, not after all those hints. At least not until she sat there in Dorian’s lap with tears running down her cheeks for some reason he vaguely remembered, Dorian’s hands carefully caressing her, how that man looked at her with admiration when they whispered in each other’s ears, their heads close, how she smiled through her tears. It was like daggers in his heart, piercing and then twisted in the wound to make it bleed out faster, and she was so beautiful it hurt. Then, the bard began to play a jig, and Solas decided that the only way to get Dirthara out of Dorian’s lap was to dance with her. It would have gone against his better judgement to interfere under normal circumstances, but this was now and he was brave under the influence of alcohol. On unsteady legs, smiling from ear to ear, he stood up from his chair, grabbed her hand and pulled her up on the floor. She didn’t know the steps and her balance was just like her speech rather impaired, so instead of a jig it turned into a wobbly waltz. They laughed, and her smile, the closeness of her body and those eyes were enough to have him drown completely. He couldn’t even understand why he had been so afraid; this was how it was supposed to be. Care-free without a single thought of consequences. When the jig ended, he kept her to himself, sat her down in his lap by the table and whispered of all those things he never dared to say. Described his eternal love for her, how he missed her when she wasn’t there, how she made him burn with desires he couldn’t explain when she was; how much he hated to see her leave without him, how he never met someone like her before. They kissed, and Solas wasn’t sure of if it was on his accord or hers, but they did, and that hunger in him grew out of proportions. He wanted her then and there, without the slightest care for the people around them, and Dorian laughed.  
“I for one wouldn’t mind a show”, he stated with a somewhat controlled slur, “but for the sake of the gossip tomorrow: get a room.”  
Iron Bull laughed when Solas got up on shaky legs and was about to fall over when the blood rushed through his body. “You aren’t much of a drinker, are you? I still have those good lengths of rope, if you’re interested…” Iron Bull winked.  
“Some other time, perhaps”, Solas replied as Dirthara pulled him out through the door from Herald’s Rest. They didn’t get far; she pushed him against the wall right outside the door just beside an unsteady templar taking a piss. Dirthara’s lips met Solas’ with such ferocity that their teeth collided. The templar beside them snickered as he groggily passed them. “Have a lovely evening, Inquisitor”, he said as he opened the door and returned inside.  
Yes, well, maybe this wasn’t the best spot for a rendez-vous. Somehow, Solas managed to get them across the yard and through the kitchen doors; none of them were particularly balanced and the stairs up to the keep was a death trap to happen in this state; but on the way Solas lost his tunic and kind of misplaced Dirthara’s coat, the buttons in her vest and… well, the vest too, but it wasn’t attached to the buttons anymore.   
There were embers on the fire in the kitchen still, the warmth indoors almost overwhelming after the fresh air outside. They stumbled into the table, a couple of carrots fell to the floor and rolled away, and on their way to the dining hall they almost tripped over a chair. Her lips were warm against his but her hands were surprisingly cold when they reached into his pants and firmly grasped his erect member. Solas gasped with shock, thought for a moment that it might shrivel up and disappear, backed away with his pants about to fall down from his hips.  
“Too cold”, he hummed against her lips.  
Dirthara giggled drunkenly and fell down to her knees in front of him, but with her lack of balance and his rather haphazardly attached pants, she took the rest of his clothes with her in her fall.  
“Hey, what are you…?”   
The end of the sentence was just a long groan as her mouth enfolded him in a warm wetness and her tongue… whatever she was doing with her tongue, it made him completely lose all focus. Solas groggily looked down at her bobbing head as his pulse went up and rushed the sensations through his every limb. It felt really strange, standing in the middle of the dining hall, almost completely naked and… well, this. It was so surreal. And what would people say if they were seen like this?  
“Dirthara…” he muttered between clenched jaws and entangled his fingers in her hair. “This is not…”  
He lost his words and fell into the sensation when she sucked harder, stars dancing in front of his vision, the pleasure rushing over him in waves. Not that his mind was clear enough to form the thought, but the prospect of being caught was kind of a turn on, in fact.   
And then she looked up; unfocused, but still; their eyes met and the simple thought of her on her knees in front of him was enough to make him mutter words that hardly formed sentences between breaths. Panting, his hips almost involuntarily moving against her, a warmth spreading through him like a fire and the need to explode just shivering under his skin.  
He came in spasms, closed his eyes, shouted out his release and spilled his seed in her mouth, hands pulling in her hair. Would have fallen over if he hadn’t held on to her. He was breathing heavily when he looked down at her again and their eyes locked. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and he could feel her wet saliva going from warm to cold around his length. Dirthara rose to her feet and Solas pulled her into an embrace.  
“You make me lose my mind”, he whispered hoarsely against her neck as her arms snaked their way around his waist. Had to concentrate to articulate the words, as his tongue wouldn’t obey otherwise. He couldn’t remember her reply; if he was drunk before this ordeal, his head was spinning even faster now. He remembered that salty taste of himself on her lips however, remembered that he was about to tumble over his pants that still were stuck around his ankles when they began to move again. Solas kicked the trousers away, still with his lips glued to hers.  
They did eventually reach the throne room, and Solas wasn’t sure if it was she who had lead them there or him. Her shirt was gone already when he pressed her against the door to her tower, and he only remembered that because he could feel her skin against his, the softness of her breasts pressed against him. They stumbled through the door when they finally managed to open it, and he fell over her in the stairs up, which hardly mattered; the only thing important then and there was Dirthara and how his hands finally managed to get inside her trousers. She was already wet and hummed against his mouth, her moans gave echo in the stairwell of stone leading up. It turned into hitched screams swallowed by his lips as she rolled her hips against his hand, but when he tried to remove her pants she shook her head.   
“Not here”, she whispered and made an effort to get back on her feet. Solas crawled after her, up one step at the time, kept her under him until they reached the landing where the stairs turned in the dimly lit tower, snickered when she grunted at him for being a twat; she was cold with goose bumps all over her body.  
When they eventually reached her room and fell over her bed, Dirthara wrestled him down and got out of his embrace. She stood between his knees and he sat up at the edge of the bed, too eager to keep his hands away. Hid his face between her small breasts, teased the nipples between his fingers while she fought with her remaining clothes. She finally stepped out of her boots and pants, grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back against the bed as she climbed up, steered him right and straddled him. When she slowly sank down over him, he moaned with pleasure from the base of his throat, aware of nothing but the sensation of her warm, tight wetness caressing him. As she began to move over him, his hands advanced from her thighs to her hips, grabbed her hard as he met her every motion with a thrust that made her small breasts bobble. She rested her weight on her hands against his chest, and with every thrust he could feel her around his length, her muscles pulling him further in and pushing him out, everything pulsating around him. Her gasps, her thrown back head, thick black eyelashes flickering; she was lost in her own sensations, and it had been enough to just look at her, to hear her heavy breathing between those parted lips, her gasps of desire as she rode him faster and faster. The burning current growing in force, reaching every cell of his being, and he couldn’t stop watching her, even though the spots of light in his vision was almost blinding.   
And then came the sensation of the flood. Overwhelming, like the breaking of a dam, the force of a released river flowing through a close canal. At the same time the sensation of her contractions along his length, violent both from within himself and around. Her screams drowning in the beat of his own heart like hard waves in his ears, his instinct more than his own will making him push further, the intensity of every motion almost painful. Almost, just on the verge; a pleasure to astounding to describe in other words. An explosion of feelings, sensations, too big to comprehend. And that bliss, that simple bliss when he completely drained fell back against the mattress, covered in sweat, every muscle in his entire body relaxed, his mind at ease. She fell over him, and they were nothing more but a heaping pile of sweating flesh.

He was back in that tomb, that dark place where he woke up, a memory he prefered to have lost. The frustration when he realized that he couldn’t move, when he noticed how the taste of tea sweetened with honey tasted stale and old in his dry mouth. He forced himself up, floated in the air, and realized that he had been sleeping for all too long. The guards by the door had died where they stood, nothing but their skeletons left and the gate was locked from the outside. What was worse; he was weak in both body and mind. The door wouldn’t open and the orb… It wasn’t here. Solas knew how this would end and chose to leave the scene - left the dream by leaving the body behind. And as he did, the scent of lilies in the valley found him, a breath of spring embraced him and spoke of the people that lived, the people that fought, the people that remained. Death didn’t come for all, it whispered, and even though the darkness surrounded him like a cloak covered with stars, it was reassuring.   
Death didn’t take them all. They were still slaves, but among the living.   
And then he found Shartan.  
No, that wasn’t right, the air never smelled like a wind of spring, and he never felt calm under the wings of darkness. This was not at all how he remembered it; he had feared his own end, alone in a cave. There had been no cool winds, he never heard the waves crashing against the shore…  
“Solas!”  
He recognized that voice. The clouded memories of the night before flashed through his mind and Solas woke up with a jolt. He opened his eyes and hers stared back into his. Blue, an expression of ice cold rage.  
“Damn it.” Mouth still dry, but with the sour taste of wine; his voice was not much more but a throaty grumble and he sat up in her bed. That slight motion made his head feel like it was about to explode, so he closed his eyes and hid his face in his hands. Everything smelled of sex.  
Dirthara stood up from the bed; he knew, only because he felt the mattress wobble when she moved. “Get. Out.”

Dirthara

Oh, no. Crap, damn ass buckets of fidget fuckers and a whole horde of demons. Damn that elf, damn everything about him! Dirthara walked across the room towards the couch, grabbed one of the folded plaids from its armrest and wrapped herself up in it as Solas stood up from the bed. Oh, if she just could sink through the floor… What the hell had she done!  
“I’m sorry, Dirthara, I never meant to…” He began hoarsely with one hand over his forehead and his brows furrowed. His head hurt too, huh? Well, he deserved that, the proud bastard. And where the hell did she have that bottle Vivienne had given her; she remember putting it in one of those clever places where she wouldn’t forget… Damn it, it would be gone, because of course it was, and she would find it behind a flower pot in fifteen years, when it was too late… Dirthara began to pace with her hands locked in her armpits.  
“Never meant what, you louse?” She glared at Solas; the root of all her problems; and of course his unashamed nudity needed to have an effect on her when she least wanted it. Solas didn’t even attempt to hide a promising morning wood and she could almost punch him for it. What was he expecting her to do with that… thing, hmm?  
“This. Dirthara, you know I never would…” Solas’ shoulders fell as he looked at her across the room, his head slightly tilted and that crinkle over his nose which only appeared when he was about to splutter out something exceedingly mean.  
Dirthara chuckled dryly. “You have a little bullshit there… on your lip. Do you need a tissue?”  
Solas grunted and closed his eyes.”Oh, I’m sorry, did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours? Is it too much to ask that you listen, just for a moment?”  
“I don’t have time for your smooth crap, Solas. Just leave.” Dirthara turned her back against him and returned to the couch where she poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the low table. Something to do, so he couldn’t see how her blood was boiling. The pulse felt like a percussionist making an advanced drum solo inside of her head, the same head that felt too heavy for her neck, as if it was filled with gravel. Damn, crap, shit. They ended up here. Naked. In her room. How on Thedas…? Yes, well, drinking had been a starting signal, but what happened after that? Last night was merely a hopscotch of snippets mashed together into a big lump. There had been a kiss, but other than that she didn’t know what had happened, and apparently she would regret most of it when her memory returned.  
Damn it, this would be one of those days when she would stay in bed all day, pitying herself while reading a book and stuffing her face...  
“I can’t find my clothes”, Solas pointed out behind her and Dirthara closed her eyes hard. Couldn’t find his clothes. Which meant that they wasn’t here. Damn it, the whole castle would know… She emptied her glass in a few large gulps before she turned back to look at him again.  
“How is that my problem?” she wondered and found some bitter pleasure in the thought of him making the walk of shame with that hard-on, waving about like a leaning flag post, pointing him in the right direction through the keep.  
Solas sighed and made a wide gesture with his arms. “Sure. Whatever. I’ll make it your problem. You wanted me to leave, I’m not leaving without clothes.“  
Dirthara grunted and rolled with her eyes as she poured herself another glass of water. She took her good time to drink it, knew that Solas stood there waiting for her, and he could damn well wait. He, who always was so controlled and restrained; he, who always knew exactly what he did. This was all his fault. After putting down the glass carefully on the table again, she sauntered off across the room towards the chest of drawers where she kept her clothes. And, as it happened, some of Solas’ too. She was, however, not planning to be too hospitable; if he wanted clothes, he would have to wear hers. She found a set of Orlesian riding wear that she had gotten as a gift from one of the dignitaries visiting Skyhold; a pair of tight pants and a knee long dress. Everything was adjustable, so it would probably fit over his chest and shoulders, but it would be too short and look ridiculous. Good enough. It had never been used, she never liked the damn thing. Dirthara dropped it on the floor in front of him before she returned to her couch to drink some more water.  
Solas, of all people. How could she be so stupid!? What on Thedas was wrong with her, would she never learn? The men she tended to fall for had thus far proven to be either gay or retarded… Maybe that was men. How they all were. Farras: too passionate about everything, which turned violent, ergo retarded. Solas: to passionate about whatever she did that he didn’t agree upon, turned into a righteous doomsday prick - retarded. Dorian: gay. She must be some sort of idiot magnet. Well, Dorian was excused, because he was beyond adorable and in all honesty allowed to love whoever he fancied.  
“You must be kidding me…” Solas was obviously referring to the clothes she had offered him. Dirthara didn’t turn her head to look, just grinned widely as she could picture his facial expression in her mind. Furrowed brows, probably his head slightly tilted to the side as he studied the pieces of clothing critically.  
“At least it’s blue and not plaidweave”, she muttered, and remembered that there was a silly hat with a huge feather that was supposed to be worn with that outfit. She had to bite her jaws tightly together to hinder herself from laughing at his misfortune, because that hat would really look stupid on him.  
Solas muttered something under his breath and she could hear the sound of fabric gliding over skin. Then suddenly the room went silent.  
“Dirthara.” A begging tone, almost desperate.  
“Leave.”  
Complete silent again, then a sigh before the sound of his bare feet against the floor confirmed that he did what she asked of him. He disappeared down the stairs, opened the door and was gone. With that, Dirthara let out a shivering exhale, leaned her head forward, hid her face in her hands and cried.


	36. Revelations

Solas

"Did you imagine such a pairing?" A woman’s voice echoing through the hall. Solas wasn’t really listening, her shrill voice was just difficult to avoid; especially in his miserable state. Every beat of his pulse felt like a drum roll inside of his skull, his heart felt completely crushed and the night before was nothing but regrets. Every hope he ever nourished of winning Dirthara back was lost, and the worst part was that he knew it would be for the better. For both of them.  
"No I would have imagined something a bit more highbrow than an apostate." A man, somewhere in the crowd of nobles on Solas’ right side as he walked with heavy steps along the carpet towards the open doors leading outside to the yard. The sun was shining, the strong light stung in his eyes and the coldness of the night before was gone. Another warm day, and the only solution to all his problems was a cold shower.  
"Of course the Inquisitor would go for one like that", the woman pointed out, and as her voice cut like knives in his ears, Solas realized what they were talking about. Of course he listened a little more carefully, even though it was nothing but gossip.  
"They mage or the elf part?” the man asked, “The Inquisitor's a knife ear too, you know."  
"I would mind your words if you don't want those knife ears overhearing you. You do realize they come in handy right?" Solas gritted his teeth to both her voice and their choice of words, but passed the group of people as inconspicuously as possible with his eyes pinned to the carpet. If inconspicuous was possible in this stupid outfit.  
"She has power and this is her choice”, the woman snickered insinuatingly. “From what I hear, we reach a climax.”  
“Not just us”, the man replied dryly, upon which Solas almost stumbled on his own feet and had to stop mid step in the middle of the hall to not actually fall over. His heart skipped a beat and his stomach made a flip. Wasn’t this gossip becoming a bit too personal? What gave them the right to be this familiar with...  
The woman gasped. "Oh you! That is not what I meant, this could be serious. Perhaps there will be gowns, wedding bells!"  
Absolutely not. If there was one thing Solas was sure about, this was it.  
"Hush! Not so loudly!" The man ended the conversation hastily and Solas could almost imagine how the two glanced in his direction as he hesitantly continued along the red carpet in the throne room.   
"Maybe we should move this outside", the woman whispered, and her voice gave echo throughout the entire hall. Yes, she really knew how to keep a low profile, that one. Solas hurried through the door to the rotunda and closed it hastily behind him with the tips of his ears burning. He sank to the floor with his back against the wall and hid his face in his hands with a sigh. Didn’t care about that musky smell for the time being, even though it made him feel unclean and ashamed. He should never have let this happen. He should have stayed away from the very beginning, it wouldn’t have caused him this much pain. Yes, he would have kept on admiring her from a distance while he continued to convinced himself that his interest had nothing to do with her as a person, but was for the sake of her mark. His mark. The one she had stolen from him.   
Solas grunted and leaned the back of his head against the wall. Eh, what was the use. He couldn’t work up enough anger towards her to actually push those feelings away. Anger was never a primary emotion anyway, it was a response to fear, guilt and pain. Among other things. He was that much aware of himself that he knew he carried all of it in abundance. He lashed out on her because of his many fears, one of them being the pain of losing her. Not just like this, he feared that he might lose her because of...  
Yes, guilt. Dirthara was already racing head first into an early grave, because of that mark. Her mind was much stronger than her body, growing stronger every day it seemed, and the mark would break her. If Solas had been patient, if only she hadn’t been there when… Hm. If only. There were many regrets and he couldn’t do anything about it.   
The crows cawed above his head, Leliana spoke in a hushed tone on the balcony, probably to one of her spies. Solas cleared his throat and returned to his feet when he remembered that he wasn’t alone. Never was anymore, really. It felt reassuring to have people around him, but sometimes…  
Priorities. Firstly, he needed something for this headache; secondly, he needed some clothes. After that, there would be time for a walk. Maybe a visit to one of the icy lakes further down in the mountains. That would clear his head and clean this stench off him.

With a cup of tea in his belly, clothes fitted for himself and the backpack slung over his shoulder, Solas stepped out in the sun. The skies were clear; it would be another warm day, but it would be cold come evening. He had built a shelter by one of the smaller basins about a year ago, hopefully there would be some firewood left since then if he decided to stay the night. It was a bit off the track, so he would at least be left alone.  
He walked the stairs down towards the upper yard and was just about to turn right through the arch under the stairs when he saw Dorian and Iron Bull immersed in something that looked like a private conversation. Since Solas never got the chance to talk to Dorian about the keystones the evening before, he stopped and waited to let them end their discussion.  
“So, Dorian, about last night…” Iron Bull finally said with a loud voice and scratched his ear with a grunt.   
Dorian replied with one of his dramatic sighs. “Discretion isn't your thing, is it?” He had his back turned, shoulders lifted and arms crossed; not at all his usual poise.  
Solas furrowed his brows. Eavesdropping like this wasn’t normally his thing; others did that for him; but this was suspicious. The Vint and the Qunari - conspiracy theories began to spin around in Solas’ head.  
“Three times!” Iron Bull laughed out loud, apparently not at all concerned with Dorian’s wish to keep things to themselves. What on earth had they been doing? Something must have happened after he and Dirthara left Herald’s Rest the night before.  
“Also, do you want your silky underthings back, or did you leave those like a token?” Iron Bull continued with a lower voice. Solas froze. What?! Iron Bull and… Dorian? This had to be a joke! He could hear Dorian grunt with frustration.   
Iron Bull just kept on jabbering, as if he didn’t notice Dorian’s predicament:   
“Or... wait, did you ‘forget’ them so you'd have an excuse to come back? You sly dog!”  
There was a short pause, and then Dorian replied with a low growl:   
“If you choose to leave your door unlocked like a savage, I may or may not come.”  
“Speak for yourself.” Iron Bull laughed. “Savage.”  
Solas decided that his conversation with Dorian would have to wait.If he approached them now, the Vint would be in a bad mood and nothing would come out of their conversation. Solas turned right and hurried away down the stairs to the lower yard, confused but also relieved. A little late for that maybe, but his jealousy towards Dorian was apparently completely misdirected. Solas shook his head and snickered. Last night, huh? If things happened for a reason, then what was this all about?

Dirthara

She did find the small bottle of potion eventually, but not until she was about to leave her room in a fit of panic to get another one from Vivienne. Which would have been extremely embarrassing, due to certain circumstances. She found it in one of her drawers when she was looking for something to wear, and could with a sigh of relief abandon the mission of leaving her room. A much needed bath, some fruits and a good book was all she wanted.  
After a full day locked in her chambers, some of those embarrassing memories had returned to her though. Vivid images that made her blush, some worse than others, and she would have prefered to stay under her blankets and comforters for the rest of her life. However, the very next day her restlessness forced her into action, yet again. She knew why, was also aware of the fact that she needed rest to heal, but it was just too much to deal with. When she wasn’t occupied, her mind forced her along paths she didn’t want to follow, and for the moment those paths were many and painful. Solas was one of the things she didn’t want to think about; her worries about her clan was almost crippling; the loss of Hawke was like cuts through her heart; her fear of Fear itself and the horrors she couldn’t remove from the inside of her eyelids every time she closed her eyes never let her relax. When she worked herself senseless, she forgot to brood, and she prefered to keep it that way. Her goal ahead was something to direct all this fear and anger towards.  
It nevertheless became difficult, when she realized that most of the missions available on the war table involved Solas in one way or another. It either had to do with ancient elves, spirits or the Fade; she didn’t have much of a choice.  
“Menial tasks like fetching prize goats and finding herbs is not for you”, Leliana pointed out when Dirthara protested. “You know that’s below your abilities, Inquisitor.”  
“But returning to the Western Approach?” Dirthara grunted. “I just left, isn’t this something Cullen could…?”  
“We’re talking about the Forbidden Oasis. it contains ancient Elven and Tevinter ruins, there are traces of the past under every step you take; templars are fighters, not scholars.” Leliana shook her head and gave Dirthara a strange glance. “Dorian and Solas are our specialists on the subject...”  
“Yes, yes. Fine.” Dirthara sighed and stomped around on the spot. She just had to be mature about this, even though the other night hardly made it easier. “Send scout Harding ahead, we’ll be leaving at noon.”  
“Solas hasn’t returned yet…” Josephine began, but was hastily interrupted by Dirthara.  
“I said fine.” Hasn’t returned yet? She wasn’t even aware that he’d left. Stupid elf.  
Leliana and Josephine exchanged a glance and Dirthara furrowed her brows. She knew what their concerns were about but she wasn’t going to address the matter.   
“You’ll have enough time to make sure your equipment is in order if you wait until tomorrow morning, Inquisitor”, Leliana pointed out and Dirthara felt how all the color left her face. Equipment, like armor for example. Her coat was gone, she hadn’t even found a trace of it. The vest was destroyed and her shirt… well, there wasn’t much left of it, really. Her leisure clothes, those Vivienne had called her pajamas, were hardly suitable for travelling through Orlais either.   
Dagna, the arcanist. She could arrange something. Probably.  
“It’s settled then”, she grunted and turned around to leave the war room. “Tomorrow at dawn.”

“Dagna, I’m in a pickle…” Dirthara hadn’t even entered the Undercroft when she began to speak. Harrit held his hammer and looked up from the blade he was working on by the anvil. Dagna, who had been sitting on the workbench beside him hopped down and looked up at Dirthara with a wide smile.  
“A pickle? I like pickles.” She snickered at her own words, eyes so wide open that Dirthara feared the eyeballs might pop out of their sockets. Harrit just cursed under his breath, placed the hammer on the anvil and left the sword on the workbench as gingerly as if it had been a baby.  
“Protection. I know, I’ve seen that coat of yours. I told you to take good care of it, didn’t I? It looks like it’s been through hell and back.” Harrit gave her a measuring glance. “You’re a bit bigger now than back in Haven, I’d say… Not as malnourished...”  
Dirthara ignored his grumpy admonitions and snorted. “Hell and back? You don’t know how right you are, Harrit. The thing is, I’ve been practicing with blades lately and would need something…”  
Both Harrit and Dagna nodded.   
“We’ve heard”, Dagna pointed ut. “Knight-Enchanter.”  
“I wonder…” Harrit furrowed his brows, turned around and walked over to a chest by the tinting table. “The scouts brought something back from the Exalted Plains a while back. It might suit you.” He waved her over and Dirthara followed with curiosity.   
“We were thinking of dismantling it to understand how it works”, Harrit continued, as he opened the chest and rummaged around for a while. “Hm… Dagna, you didn’t sell it, did you?”  
Dagna shook her head. “No, I’m too curious for that. The fabric should have turned to dust centuries ago, to think what we could do with that enchantment! I copied the technique in a tunic some time ago; you see, the threads are enchanted before the fabric is weaved...”  
“Yes, and the handiwork is something… we should be able to produce schematics, if you gave us the time, Inquisitor. Ah, here it is.” Harrit resurfaced from the chest with something that looked like a dress of some sort in his hands. He unfolded it slowly and looked up when Dirthara gasped. “Yes, isn’t it beautiful?”  
“It is a High Keeper’s robe”, was Dirthara’s first reaction, and it really was beautifully crafted. “My mother wears something similar.” It both pained her and made her feel warm, only from seeing the garment in the smith’s hands.  
“I told you, Harrit. She wouldn’t notice it.” Dagna laughed, her voice gave echo in the Undercroft. “No, Inquisitor, this is much older. The magic is… well, it’s not only strong, it’s ancient too. I haven’t seen anything like it. Within the borders of what used to be called the Dales, you can find robes that looks very similar to this one. Old ones, preserved from the time before the Exalted March on the Dales. The difference is that those you call the High Keeper’s robes are all visibly worn, both by its wearers and time. This one is much older and as you see it still looks brand new.”  
Dirthara lifted her hand and touched the fabric. It was soft and she could feel the magic like little sparkles on her fingertips. “This is, however, not armor”, she pointed out, without being able to look away from the garment. The stitches were sublime, so small and made with such thin thread that it was a marvel that the thing stayed together at all. This was a piece of her history, someone had crafted it a long time ago, and this was all that remained - like a memory of a life long gone. Almost like a living reminder of a time long passed, right here, and she had touched it. Green wasn’t really her color, but...  
“Not armor...”Harrit cleared his throat. “Well, that is where you are wrong, Inquisitor. You see, this robe can’t be destroyed. It is like a magical barrier, it protects its bearer just as it protects itself. And look here - this is chainmail.” He lifted one of the sleeves for her to see, and to Dirthara’s surprise, he was right. Thin, almost like another layer of fabric, which was exactly what she at first had thought it to be. But if it was that thin...  
“Hm. It might protect against cuts, but hardly blunt force.” Dirthara looked up and met Harrit’s glance.  
“Tell me of any chain mail that does that and I shall craft it for you”, Harrit muttered and rolled his eyes. “This is light and you will be able to move unhindered. If you’re quick enough, blunt weapons are too slow to hit you anyway.”  
Dirthara felt a bit stupid for her rather hasty remark, but nodded. “Alright, let me try it on. We might need to make some adjustments - I’m pretty short, even for an elf.”

Noon, and Solas hadn’t returned yet. Because of course she had to wait for him, and of course his absence made her look towards the gates every second she passed a window. He did it to keep her under his thumb, didn’t he? Out of spite.  
She was waiting for that armor to be fitted for her, would soon enough have to return to the Undercroft to try it out once more, but all this waiting… She could use this time to practice with her blade, but her father had stayed in the Dales to meditate on historical sites - he had been very sentimental when they recruited the Dalish clans in the Exalted Plains - and Vivienne… Yes, Vivienne was a chapter of her own. Dirthara didn’t even get a chance to ask the enchanter to spar with her, and quite frankly, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to either.

“Have you heard?” Vivienne received Dirthara with as many air kisses as ever and bid her to sit down by the table where she just had poured herself a cup of tea. Another cup was produced, almost out of thin air, and placed in front of Dirthara.  
“Heard what?” Dirthara’s gaze were at the tea cup when Vivienne served her of the golden brown, steaming hot brew.  
“Grand Duke Gaspard has invited the Inquisition to the ball!” Vivienne placed the teapot on the table. “Sugar? Honey? Milk?”  
Dirthara shook her head as a response to the offerings, but furrowed her brows to the thought of the ball.   
“Oh.” Damn it, she had wished that this could have been avoided - a ball meant dancing, and she always seemed to trip on her own feet, and to be quite frank; what she had heard about the Orlesians and their ‘Game’, she wasn’t sure if she enjoyed the thought of being in the middle of an active nest of angry, backstabbing wasps.  
“Isn’t it marvellous?” Vivienne sat down across from Dirthara with a sigh and for the first time ever, she looked truly delighted. “You are going to love the gowns, dear. Oh, and the food, the music…” She sighed again and her eyes drifted out through the open windows.  
“I don’t know how to dance”, Dirthara murmured as she lifted her teacup to her lips and had a small sip.  
Vivienne furrowed her brows, but smiled when her gaze returned to Dirthara. “Oh, Darling, you really are adorable. Like a stumbling foal on too long legs. Of course I’ll help you. Oh, and I’ll be needing your measurements, thank me later.”  
“Measurements?” Dirthara studied Vivienne with confusion over the brim of her cup.  
“For your gown, darling?” Vivienne didn’t actually roll her eyes, but the figurative expression on her face was pretty much the same. “As I’ve said before: you need to dress like the predator you are.” She didn’t seem to be overly convinced about the last part however, as she studied Dirthara with a face of doubt that she couldn’t hide behind her usual mask of evenness.  
“Oh.” Dirthara returned the teacup on the plate with a discrete clinking sound. “Harrit has them, I’m sure he could…”  
Vivienne snickered. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s a gown you need, not an armor. Don’t fret, my dear. I’ll take care of it, I’m sure you will be pleased with the result.”  
Dirthara was just about to answer her when Dagna’s voice echoed through the hall.  
“Inquisitor?”  
“I’m sorry, lady Vivienne…” Dirthara stood up from her seat with an apologetic smile and rushed off towards the Undercroft. Pleased, again, to have the woman out of her hair, but at the same time worried about the ball she still hadn’t heard anything about but from Vivienne’s lips. Would she need to learn how to dance? What was expected of her? What if they didn’t succeed, if their mission to Halamshiral was all for naught? Another thing added to the pile of things she didn’t want to address at the moment.

After another few adjustments, the ancient armor fitted her like a second skin, but the only way to try the durability of the materials was to expose herself for a beating. When nobody of her fighting style was available for a sparring match, the second best would have to suffice: the templars in training in the yard outside. She would not get the pointers she needed to excel in her own school, but she might pick up a thing or two that could be useful. Dirthara was after all just a novice, and the only reason she had survived this long was probably pure luck and talented company.  
When she ran through the hall, she noticed how light the garment was; more like a dress than armor. The fibres hummed against her skin and silenced the sound of chainmail as she moved. It felt strange to feel the floor directly against the soles of her feet; she had been wearing boots for such a long time that her bare toes made her feel naked. Not cold, strangely, this armor really was something out of the ordinary. She skipped down the stairs towards the yard, climbed the fence around the ring and sat herself down on the top. Leaning against the fence a couple of feet away stood a large man with his bare chest covered in sweat, panting as if he just had been running. He studied the two templars fighting, bulging muscles twitching under his skin in anticipation for every move the two combatants made. A man and a woman, the man using his brute force and the woman her speed.  
“Would it be alright if I practiced with you?” Dirthara asked as she studied the footwork of the woman in the ring. Fast and precise, this was probably something she’d manage to copy.  
The man beside her turned his head and snickered. “You’re a mage. Don’t you have a book to read?”  
His comment made Dirthara look at him with surprise. Their eyes met, his disapproving brown and her icy blue. They both stared at each other intensely, and it took Dirthara a moment to realize something. He didn’t know who she was. How was that even possible? Well, if he didn’t know who she was, then he wouldn’t go easy on her either, especially since he didn’t seem to like the company of her kind.  
“Come on, I need to blow off some steam”, she begged, upon which the man gave her a measuring glance. Dirthara discretely hid the green glowing mark in her hand by grasping it inside her fist in her lap.  
“You’re so small I might crush you by mistake, knife ear”, the man said and looked away. “Be a nice little girl and run along - go play with that stick of yours or something.”  
Dirthara snorted and shook her head. “I know how to handle my own stick, what I’d like to practice is how to use your sword.” The innuendo was obvious and the man was fast to turn his head again. This time, the expression in his face was dual edged; somewhat amused and at the same time irritated.  
“Sure, whatever”, he replied after a short pause. “If cutting you in half is the only way to end your yapping…”


	37. Arbor Wilds

Solas

He woke up the next morning, refreshed and somewhat closer to his true self than in a very long time. The cold water in the basin, the waterfalls where salmon swam upstream during the spring, the simplicity of his shelter against nature, and the silence, only disturbed by the waters, the birds and his own feet over the rocks - it all had been reviving. Solas felt physically clean after a swim, spiritually renewed after hours of listening to nothing but the sounds of nature, and after a night’s sleep under the stars, he felt stronger. The temptations of this world had made him blind, but he had also seen its beauty.  
He put out the embers that remained of his fire early in the morning; the sun was just about to reach over the cliffs surrounding the basin and the frost clung on to the grass under the trees as if this was its only chance for life. Solas felt it melt under his bare feet when he collected firewood and piled it against the outer wall of the shelter, saw how his steps left marks of darker colour. It was something profoundly unearthly, bound in the most mundane of physics. Leaving this to return to the intensity of mortal dilemmas was not something he longed for, but in the state the world was in, he didn’t have much of a choice. If he didn’t, this fragile beauty in all its simplicity would be lost.  
Solas collected all his things - it wasn’t that much, only what he could fit in his backpack - and began his hike back to the mountain roads. From a ring made of a birch branch in his hand, hung two brown trouts that he’d caught the night before but never managed to eat. It would be wasteful to leave them, life spillt for no reason at all.  
The roads were empty this early in the morning. On his descent, he met travellers on their way to Skyhold, passed wanderers on their way down. The old fort hadn’t been this alive since… Well, in a thousand years. The people of the time, mostly humans then just as now, had been shards of what had been, but they regained what they had lost and more. With one foot in the realm of mortal flesh and the other in the realms of the gods, they seemed to be better connected now than ever. Not a lost cause like…   
Wait, that sounded like horses.  
Solas stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Nothing yet, just the echo of hooves against the rocky path below him. It didn’t take long however, for him to see the armor of the templars reflecting the sunlight. The man in the front, large, with his blonde hair in perfect curls on his head - he was striking, commander Cullen. Like the Alamarri, when they crossed the seas, Cullen could be an imposing opponent despite his playful exterior. Solas stopped and waited for the riders, not because he wanted to, but because it would be the polite thing to do. He didn’t have anything in common with these men and women, still avoided them if he could, but Cullen was different. At least, that was what Cole said. Cullen had changed, his spirit not pained by the memories anymore.  
“Solas!” Cullen rode up to him and jumped off the back of his horse in one smooth motion. Among these soldiers, he belonged and could relax; out in the field rather than behind some desk. “What are you doing here at this time of day?”  
Solas smiled in return and bowed his head. “Commander Cullen, I could ask the same of you, and your answer would be the same as mine. You are returning to Skyhold, are you not?”  
Cullen snorted and walked by Solas’ side, the horse followed patiently in the reins. “It is a lovely morning for a stroll, but your backpack and the trouts in your hand tells me that you’ve been away longer than just for a stroll.”  
Solas sighed and looked up the mountain side. Skyhold would not be seen quite yet, but the bridges over the largest pits would soon enough speak of the castle ahead.   
“I felt cooped up and needed some space”, he revealed. “These mountains haven’t been this populated in a very long time.”  
“You used to live up here”, Cullen stated, even though it was more of a question than a statement. He studied the ground where he walked carefully. “I knew you must be well acquainted with the area since you found Skyhold in our time of need and all, but I had no idea people actually stayed in the mountains.”  
“I have lived in many places, Cullen”, Solas replied with a snicker. “I’d say it is both the curse and the privilege of being an apostate.”  
“Hm, well, yes...” Cullen’s face turned red. “But why here? The roads are treacherous, the climate is cold and unforgiving, you can hardly farm land…”  
Solas knew the paths as well as the contents of his own pockets, but he could hardly explain that to Cullen without being forced to tell the man more than he wanted, so he just shrugged. “The water is fresh and the fishing is good”, he said and lifted the ring with the two brown trouts to show. “The cold streams attract salmon. If I ever needed anything beyond that, I traded with the Avvar tribes.”  
Cullen nodded and a smile spread on his lips. “Ah, the Avvar. Of course.”

They entered through the gates together some hours later, Solas and Cullen, side by side. The soldiers stayed in the camp outside the walls - well, it wasn’t a camp anymore, it had become a permanent installment. The tents, which had been a rather long-lived provisional solution for the troops, had turned into permanent buildings of stone and wood, and it had taken the shape of a small village. The soldiers in training kept a strict schedule; training in the yard under the lead of the veterans, exercise to keep a high stamina despite carrying heavy armor, but the Templars following commander Cullen had been soldiers for quite some time.   
Solas could hear the sounds of fighting in the ring before he even entered the yard, shouts and grunts echoing between the walls, the cheering and the taunts; but he stopped in his tracks with his mouth wide open the moment his eyes caught the scene.  
He was thrown back in time. The smooth dance of a spirit blade clashing against the heavy blows of a sword, metal against air; the flow of energy humming - he recognized the sounds of that armor and that blade a bit too well. It was the robes of a mage flowing through the dance, not the armor of a warrior, and yet the spirit blade was not the staff of a mage. His sister. Ghilana, who always wanted to imitate everything Solas did, her force and energy with which she clashed with the world. This was how he remembered her. It took him a moment to realize that the armor was worn by Dirthara, and not some figment of his imagination; that the long, blond braid swaying back and forth over her shoulder wasn’t a memory of some ancient hero, but that braid she usually made before she went to sleep. If the color of her hair had been chestnut, this could have been a compelling mirage.   
Cullen had stopped by Solas’ side, and it was he who broke the trance:  
“I’ve never seen her fight”, he said with a laugh. “I mean, after Adamant I heard, but I never thought…”  
“She comes from a long line of mages, Cullen.” Solas’ voice was weak and he couldn’t avert his eyes from the fight in the ring. It was a dance: the templar calm and moving with ease despite his armor; like a wolf around its prey, skillful attacks with precise control; Dirthara adapting to her elements, wind and fire, flowing away from his blade and attacking from the side. She was faster, but not as talented; her attacks felt vague as if she was afraid of hurting him. Silly girl, it would certainly be the other way around, Solas realized with a cold lump in his belly.  
“You can’t read yourself skillful in the martial arts”, Cullen protested, “I saw the Knight-Enchanters practice in the circle before they went to war, they never learnt the true dance of the swords.”  
They slowly moved forward and stopped by the fence to the ring. The two fighters had already gathered a crowd; a Templar against a mage was tantalizing enough to bind both warriors and magic users alike. Solas had only seen Dirthara fight in the Fade through the visions of the spirits, and he knew that they portrayed her as a composed hero. In his dream she was stronger, taller, glowing with the light of the sun; in reality she was fast and vicious, teeth gritted and eyes burning, fueled by anger. Her fighting style was a mix of things, not purely the dance to victory from his memory. Unorthodox, but not inelegant. He could feel her connection to the Fade as a strong tingle, and heard the whispers as she must hear them too; where the sword would land, with what force the blow would cut and how to angle her blade when fencing.  
“No, you can’t read yourself skillful.” Solas paused without letting Dirthara out of his gaze. “If you have it in your blood, however, all you need to do is dream.”  
His fingers were itching with a need to interfere, he wanted to cross blades with her just to see how much he remembered after all this time; wanted to teach her everything he knew, because this would be his last chance. He should have taught Ghilana, but back then, in his mind she had only been in the way, and now…  
No, he couldn’t. That would leave a smudge on the image of the humble apostate…  
Just then, Dirthara turned her head and their eyes locked. A stutter in her connection with the Fade left her open, just for a glimpse of a moment, and the other fighter in the ring took the chance. In one heavy blow, he had her felled to the ground. Solas screamed, Cullen cursed and the other bystanders broke out in a cacophony of roars and jeers. Cullen was just about to climb over the fence when Solas held him back.  
“They don’t know it’s her”, Solas murmured as the templar in the ring leaned down to reach Dirthara a hand.  
“Yes, I realize that, Solas”, Cullen replied just as silently, “Has it never occured to you how vital it is for our operation that she is unharmed?”  
“They are sparring.” Solas’ eyes were on Dirthara when she grabbed the offered hand and slowly returned to her feet. “Isn’t that how your templars train to stay unharmed?”  
The templar gave Dirthara a friendly pat in the back, so hard that she almost fell over again, upon which both laughed.  
“Yes well…” Cullen cleared his throat and scratched his neck. “She is so small and frail, you know…”  
Solas gave the commander a curious glance. Had he been worrying about Dorian’s relationship with Dirthara all this time, when it was Cullen he really should have been concerned about? He chuckled, not without a sting of bitterness. “You saw her after Adamant, Commander, and still you fret over a sparring match.”  
Cullen grunted. “You’re right, you’re right. It’s just that… she’s so young…”  
Solas shook his head, could have laughed out loud if that hadn’t been very inappropriate. “Not younger than your recruits, not younger than you were when you joined the Order, not much younger than I was when I…” Solas stopped talking and returned his focus to Dirthara. She limped away to the other side of the ring, with the help of her massive mountain of a sparring partner.   
She wasn’t much younger than he was when he started the rebellion, Solas thought to himself.

Dirthara

Ser Wulff, that was his name. A younger son to one of the minor lords in Ferelden, but as much as his father was ‘minor’, someone in his family had to be a giant.  
“Heh, you’re still in one piece, poppet”, he panted as he patted Dirthara’s back so hard that she would have fallen to the ground again, had it not been for his fast reflexes. An expression of some mild recognition of her talents. “Next time, I won’t go easy on you, you hear?”   
Next time. He expected her to return. Sure, she had walked out of that ring on her own two feet, but come morning she was sore and covered in bruises. Despite that, they left Skyhold the following day, just after sunrise; Dirthara, Solas, Dorian and Iron Bull. They rode hard and only made two short stops on the road to change horses and eat. The atmosphere around the table at the inns could have been more cheerful; Dirthara and Solas hardly exchanged glances and kept their dialogues with each other short and at a bare minimum, which affected the entire group. This became evident when they stopped to make camp that night. It was a warm evening and the air was humid; they had reached as far south as the edge of the Arbor Wilds on the eastern border of what once had been the Dales. The neutral subjects worth discussing died out quickly. The silence seemed to disturb Dorian more than anybody else, so of course he had to make a remark on this matter:  
“Ah, the sublime ambiance of a good old fashioned family dinner; I almost miss Tevinter.”  
Dirthara let out a bitter laugh. “Happily ever after is so once upon a time, Dorian. Let us all just ignore the problem and hopefully it will dissipate on its own.”  
This was responded with a glare from both Dorian and Solas; only Iron Bull wrinkled his brows.  
“Problems don’t disappear on their own”, he pointed out. “You should at least talk about it, whatever ’it’ is.”  
Dirthara snorted and shook her head. “Yes, because talking is something all of us can do, whereas listening is challenging to say the least.”  
“Or rather, some people only listen with the intent of answering”, Solas replied with a slight nod of his head.  
“Oh, please just get drunk, both of you”, Dorian grumbled and threw another log on the fire. “It seems to work fine for my parents.”  
Dirthara felt her face turn red and looked away, could hear Solas clear his throat from across the campfire. “Yes, because drinking is a solution to all our problems”, she grunted.  
“Last time I checked, alcohol was a chemical solution, so why not.” Dorian’s reply didn’t open up for further conversations on the matter, and for another fifteen minutes the rigid dialogues consisted of rather uninspired thoughts on the weather, how the humidity in the proximity of the Arbor Wilds’ rainforests made it difficult to breathe and how their bedrolls were full of bugs. After that, there was a long, tense silence before Dorian and Iron Bull went to bed.  
“You should take the tent, I can sleep under the stars”, Solas murmured with a sigh. Dirthara looked up and studied his face. His eyes were focused on his restless fingers in his lap, where he was tying knots on a straw of grass. She couldn’t read a thing from his composed facial expression, which was infuriating. He should feel at least something; his presence caused a storm in her.  
“I can’t sleep either way”, she muttered and stood up. “I’m going for a walk, don’t wait up.”  
“Just don’t go into the forest, it’s dangerous.” Solas looked up; that worried crease between his eyebrows was at least an expression.   
Dirthara smirked. “I’m fairly certain I don’t care. Do you?”  
And yes; in retrospect it was rather childish of her to do just that. She did know better, wouldn’t have stomped with long determined strides straight into the woods if he only had chosen different words, or hadn’t mentioned the dangers of the forests at all.  
“Fenedhis lasa!” Solas got up from the fire; Dirthara could hear his feet against the ground behind her when he rushed after, which only had her running. The woods were her habitat, and even though she wasn’t a hunter, she knew how to be fast and silent. Her feet had lost some of their sensitivity after such a long time in a pair of boots, but the skin under her soles was soft and delicate. She felt the twigs before she put her feet down, moved through the tall grass under the trees without making a sound.  
“Dirthara”, Solas growled behind her, “Get back here this instant, or I’ll…”  
“You’ll what, turn me into an icicle?” Dirthara laughed and took a turn around a large tree trunk, heard Solas follow. She leaped over a large fallen branch, dove under the next and slided on her feet, ran as easily as if she had been a monkey atop of the trunk of a fallen tree. She never was much of a climber, but her feet were always sure on the ground. Silent, every motion balanced, which only emphasized Solas’ resounding tracks. He wasn’t loud, but louder than her, and she could hear his advance. He was faster than her, but the comotion woke other things. The flapping wings of birds over her head, the sound of a hart disappearing in long strides; still, all Dirthara could think of was getting away from her pursuer as she hurried further in into the Arbor Wilds. It was getting darker, not only because of the time of night, but also because of the trees creeping closer and closer. In the distance, she could hear the sound of water, a stream babbling over rocks and roots, the next second she was tackled to the ground and pinned down, face first into the dirt. Solas panting in her neck, the sound of hail falling over them, the leaves in the undergrowth around them, a pained curse from Solas. Damn it, if she wasn’t sore before...  
“Be still”, he hissed when she tried to get up, “For fuck’s sake, be still!”  
She felt his heart pounding against her shoulder blades through layers of cloth, his breath tickling in her ear, but it was his unusually vulgar expression of frustration that had her stop kicking to get him off her back. A twang from a bowstring above her head, the whistle of an arrow as it landed with a thud just feet away from her head made her grasp the situation. It wasn’t hail she ha been hearing, it was a rain of arrows. Dirthara held her breath and listened for the slightest sound, but her own pulse was too loud in her ears. Then came a sharp signal, a whistle; she would have thought it to be a bird if she hadn’t known better; and another answered further in between the trees. Something was hunting them. In a sudden fit of panic, she searched for Solas’ hand and found it. His calloused fingertips brushed over her knuckles when he grasped her cold fingers in his warm palm and pressed them lightly. Dirthara instantly felt calmer and her heart stopped racing in her chest.  
A twig snapped, on the ground, only feet away. Both Solas and Dirthara held their breaths. Another whistle, and Dirthara shut her eyes closely, squeezed Solas’ hand tighter in hers. If they were elven hunters, they must have seen them; they couldn’t have passed that closely by without noticing…  
A slight tingle on her skin, almost like a soft embrace. She never heard it take shape, never noticed him making a gesture, only felt it fall over her. A barrier, as light as a veil, a feeling so familiar that she instantly knew it was one of Solas’ glyphs. Dirthara exhaled and felt Solas do the same.  
A couple of long minutes passed. “They know we’re here”, Solas murmured against Dirthara’s ear, “they will not stop looking for us just because they cannot see us.”  
Dirthara nodded slowly, just to show him that she had heard. They waited breathlessly for another couple of minutes before Dirthara opened her mouth to speak under her breath. “My hair and your shirt… It’s pale enough to reflect the little light there is. Can you hear the water?”  
“That’s in the opposite direction from where we need to go”, Solas pointed out, “and the river…”  
“If I remember the map correctly, we can…” Dirthara was hastily interrupted when Solas put his hand over her mouth. Another whistle, this one further away, but a bird flew up from the ground close to where they were lying. Dirthara recognized the way her own tribe used to circle at prey, and from what she’d heard of the Arbor Wilds, they needed to leave quickly. Her breath was fast and shallow again, her heart pounding; what would these elves do if they found them? Which gods did they pray to; what if they were followers of the Forgotten Ones? Oh, Mythal, their lives would be ended in a blood sacrifice in some ritual… Dirthara swallowed.  
She wasn’t aware of her tears until Solas removed his hand from her mouth and wiped them away from her cheeks with his thumb. “Hush, vhenan.”  
“What if we die in here”, Dirthara sniffled, “it wouldn’t serve a purpose.”  
Solas chuckled, got off her back slowly but didn’t get up on his feet. He took a deep breath, held it and sat himself gingerly on the ground before he exhaled and pulled her up in his lap with a grunt. “Breathe”, he hummed as he cradled her in his arms like he had done before, rested his chin against her temple and slowly stroked her over her hair. “You need to take ten deep breaths, Dirthara.”  
Dirthara did as he asked, inhaled deeply his scents of moss and wood, felt his warmth reach into her and melt her fear away.  
“The river”, Solas whispered against her temple. “You were saying something about the river.”  
“We’re in a forest”, Dirthara breathed back between her held-back sobs. “The riverbanks should be muddy, and we need to blend in with the undergrowth.”  
Solas nodded, but didn’t say a word, so Dirthara took a deep breath before she continued just to collect her thoughts.  
“If we follow the stream west, they might lose our track and we should be able to circle around them between two ridges further west…”  
“That is a long trek, it will take us most of the night”, Solas replied slowly. “Help me up, we’d better get moving.”  
“Help you up?” Dirthara froze. “You’ve been hit?”  
“It’s nothing.”  
Nothing? Nothing!? The hunters of her tribe used poisoned arrows, what on Thedas suggested that these elves wouldn’t do the same? If she only had listened to Sulevin’s teachings about herbs, that would have made things so much easier… “We need to remove that arrow right away and have the wound cleaned.”  
Solas shook his head slowly and there was laughter in his voice when he spoke:  
“It’s too dark to see. Just help me break them off until we reach the water.”  
“Them?” Dirthara uttered a sound of despair that she just couldn’t hinder. “If the arrowheads are poisoned, you’ll bleed out before we even reach there.”  
Solas just snickered at her anguish. “If they were poisoned, it’s already in my blood, and waiting here will hardly make things better.”  
“Right.” Dirthara got up on her feet, legs shaking under her as she pulled Solas up. “Can you walk?”  
“We’ll see soon, won’t we?”  
Solas took a staggering step forward and was about to fall to the ground when Dirthara caught him in her arms.


	38. Family Reunion

Solas

“Come on, get up.” Dirthara’s arms around his shoulders as she pulled him back on his feet. Solas felt almost drunk, as if his blood was lighter and his mind could fly even though he was awake.  
He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m alright.”  
That familiar warm fuzzy feeling when she was close, and in reality he believed he should be frustrated with her. He wasn’t, just glad that she was alive. Maybe it was his own fault; he wasn’t as silent as she was. If he’d just let her go, maybe she would have returned unharmed, but instead… Well, if she wasn’t quiet enough, she would have been hit and nobody would have been there to help her.   
They moved forward without talking, eyes darting back and forth through the dark undergrowth, ears taking in every little sound. A twig snapped under his foot and it made them both stop and hold their breaths. The stillness around them was eerie, as if the forest was waiting. Only the stream babbled on as before, made Solas want to get there faster than ever. They shouldn’t be here.  
And then, the forest cleared in front of them, a steep bank of stones washed round, smooth and clean of the water masses. Dirthara helped him down, but the rocks began to roll under his feet and he lost his balance. He landed on his injured leg in the water and could have screamed from pain if it hadn’t been for some remaining sense of self control. His head was spinning and now it felt like the back of his thigh was on fire, but he kept his focus. Before anything else, they needed to get these arrows out, Dirthara was right about that. If the spring could clean his wound just a slightest bit, it would make a difference, but Solas was doubtful. He remembered some herbs that could help, but in this darkness… It was just as easy to grab something with the opposite effect.  
Behind him, he heard Dirthara let out a whimper.  
“I can’t reach the arrow in my shoulder, Dirthara”, he murmured as he grabbed the one in his leg firmly. He didn’t have to pull very hard to notice that the arrowhead was barbed. He would need to angle it and push it right through the thigh, or he might damage something vital. He did, however, forget to mention that little detail to Dirthara, who wasn’t slow to move into action. Solas shouted from surprise when the pain in his shoulder for a short moment multiplied and made sparks fly through his nerves all the way out to his fingertips.  
“I’m sorry, Solas.” Dirthara dropped the arrow in his lap. “This needs to be sewn, a potion won’t suffice.”  
“Yes, yes, of course.” Solas hissed and closed his eyes, let Dirthara push him back into the water to clean the cut.  
Her light touch and the cold water was soothing. “I’ll need something to bind it with, wait here…”  
She disappeared and Solas opened his eyes. Noticed something curious about the smooth rocks on the bank they just had gone down from. They were too white and all of them too similar to one another. Carefully, to not cause himself too much pain, he moved closer, with a growing suspicion that he knew exactly where they were. His suspicion was confirmed when the rocks turned out to be skulls. The entire riverbed, he remembered, had been paved with the bones of his enemies. The place where the sign once had been, written with white rocks from the waters below when the blood still flew red along the river after that gruesome battle, it had been further upstream. He wondered if his words were still intact: ‘We bones that here are, for yours await.’ Fen’Harel indeed, with his crest waving in the wind on flags over their heads, the wolf that once had been known for his fairness and intelligence, turned into something that people feared. These were the bones of slavers, oppressors, lords and kings. Their spirits were forced into the abyss. If he had known back then what this would cause… Falon’Din and his daughter raised their banners, their owls, with an army stronger than ever. So much death. So much death.

“Stay with me, Solas!” Her voice was like an echo through a dream. “Please, stay with me, just a little bit further!”   
He should leave this body behind. Find someone new. Maybe he already was about to; it was dark, and so cold.  
“Solas!”  
That voice, and then a hard slap over his face that made him wince and focus. It was dark, but he could see her face; that pale face framed with pale hair, long, wet tangles brushing over him; eyes dark as pits, that mouth… When she smiled, she smiled for the whole world. She wasn’t smiling now.  
Ma vhenan, ma elgara... Ar lath ma, la tel'abelas... She was his reason to stay, but he was so cold and the sound of water was almost narcotic. His sun and stars, he loved her and he wasn’t sorry for it, vaguely recollected that he had been and wondered why.  
“Suledin, vhenan.” Yes, that smile. Reflections through water, moving shades of blue and white, but her eyes were still dark as the night’s sky and there was a wrinkle between her eyebrows. “Ma garas mir renan, Solas. Mala taren aravas, ara ma'desen melar.”  
He might have nodded - he would follow her voice for as long as she spoke. He would remain for her, and her words were like honey, warm from the hive, melting over her lips.  
“Then get back on your feet, or so help me…” She gritted her teeth and looked away.  
And then they were walking. It felt like they had been walking for days, he was so tired, but as long as she spoke to him; little whispers, nonsense; he would follow, supported by her.  
“...and then, Dorian said…”  
Dorian. Solas remembered him. The Vint with all that refinement - to think that Solas had been so wrong. Dirthara and Dorian, they would have been a beautiful match, but alas…  
She snickered. “Don’t be stupid, Solas. It was never like that.”  
Solas knew that now, but she had to admit that Sparkles was too pretty to die.  
“A beautiful but sad mind behind a beautiful surface”, she hummed. “Too bad he prefers the company of men.”  
A sting of pain, as if she had pierced his heart with her words. Maybe it was the tone rather than what she actually said. Yeah, too bad.  
“When we get out of here, we should travel the world; you know, see all the sights…”  
And maybe he told her that he already had seen them thousands of years ago, that there wasn’t much left to see, because she chuckled and shook her head.  
“In the Fade, hmm?”  
No, for real, everything was real; even she was, and if she could be, then…  
“So dreams could be real.” Dirthara asked, she who wished to learn; to discover truths; seeker of facts.  
A dream is wishes your heart makes, where all you wish for do come true, and dreams will always stay close to the surface.   
She smiled, and everything inside of him was burning. He wanted to tell her everything, then and there, but he stumbled and fell forward to the ground. Or maybe she fell and pulled him with her; they both lied flat in the wet grass, he heard her breathing, her mouth just by his ear, a whisper again when she asked him to stay still. For a moment - he couldn’t figure out for how long - she was gone, he just felt so empty and it could have been a century. Without a guide through the darkness, her light to follow. When she returned, she did so with new words and he would listen.  
“Alright, this is what we’re going to do. To avoid the traps, we’ll stay off the track until we reach the mountain. The pass will be dangerous, and I would have prefered to reach higher ground, but in your state…” She closed her mouth and smiled again, a strange smile - it wasn’t sincere. “We’ll be alright.”  
There was some running, some shouting, the dulled pain in his leg and shoulder accompanied by a sting in his left buttcheek. Some more shouting, and then, all of a sudden Dorian’s face emerged from out of nowhere. The Vint. He was alright, maybe a little showy, but alright. The man snorted, Solas must have said that out loud; oh damn, what else had he been saying?  
“Arrows, huh? I take it you two are not trying to murder each other with words anymore”, Dorian said, as if that was a thing.  
Wait. Was it?  
Well, technically, a spoken spell would be words.  
Slow arrows. Maybe he had shot himself, he wasn’t sure.  
Her face again, tears, swollen and red - glowing white in the periphery around her.  
“Ir abelas, Solas.” Controlled, but with vibration in her voice. Don’t be sorry, life is too short. Your life…  
“I know, just…” She looked away and bit her bottom lip, took a deep breath. “This is all my fault.”  
The dangers of the Arbor Wilds - he knew that they were elves, and so did she. They had been hiding there for who knows how long, how on Thedas could that be her fault? It was his, he had been waiting for too long, he should have taken action…  
“Hush now, you need to rest.”   
And then it all went black. When his eyes got used to the dim lights that the ever burning veil fires reflected, he noticed that he couldn’t move, that the guards posted on each side of the door had long died and there was nothing more than skeletons left.  
His orb. It wasn’t here. But then he found Shartan, related by blood, the slave that rebelled, and Solas almost cried. Nothing had changed; would this be his fate in generation after generation - to fight oppression? It had been the mage leaders among the ancient spirits, and now… How long had it been? Thousands of years, and his people only entered the clutches of other mage leaders. Elf blooded men with the blood of elves on their hands.  
It wasn’t until after, when his people reached the Dales, that he realized that they weren’t his people. Not anymore. The prisons had been opened and the captive had fled; these were nothing but empty cells.  
So with the help of Shartan, he found the orb, but he was too weak, couldn’t open it. And with the help of Shartan, he looked for his own body, but with no luck. So he woke up again, with the sour taste of stale tea on his dry lips, tried once more to pry the door open for naught.  
He had slept for too long, and after all this time, everything was easier in the Fade. When Shartan returned, Solas had shown him his true face to scare him off.  
That was when Shartan changed his name and became Felassan. The slow arrow that wanted to hear all the stories from the source. Fen’Harel the wordsmith was awake again, and for almost a thousand years he told his stories. When Corypheus woke up in his prison and roared out his confusion, they both knew. Felassan was a bright star that shone in the skies for a short period of time, but that was also all he was.  
Corypheus, on the other hand - he could open the orb.  
Solas woke up from his dream with a jolt and a scream, cold sweat making him shiver, breathing fast, heart pounding as if he had been running. A dim light from a lantern in the ceiling of a tent, the fabric flickering under a breeze like a sail. Solas could for a moment not figure out where he was, not until his gaze rested on a small figure, sprawled out on the floor beside him. He remembered how this had been his first impression of her - a child at the wrong place at the wrong time - and how dramatically that had changed. Not even a full year had passed…  
She muttered something in her sleep and turned around, facing him. Eyelashes, long and thick, resting against her cheeks. Sunkissed skin, hair as pale as the moon. Was she a dream or was this real? He felt dizzy, weak in both body and mind; it was even difficult to lift his arm just to rub his eyes. He remembered their argument, remembered how his heart stopped when she ran into the forest, but after that - what had been real and what had been something else?

Dirthara

Yes, it had been a stupid move, and she should have known that he would follow. As much as she was his shadow, he was her reflection, and she would always understand herself better from looking at him. Of course he would follow, because that’s what she would have done. Dirthara regretted that stupid move even more now when she and Solas had returned safely to their camp - the Arbor Wilds, it was as if the forest itself didn’t want them there, ancient fears and ancient hate keeping their borders intact - even Dorian looked at her as if she was a bit daft.  
“Do you have a death wish, sweetheart? I mean, it is as if you don’t think it is enough with Corypheus - you do actually seek death out in the most obvious of places”, he pointed out when the biggest confusion and shock had left their camp together with the last stars in the sky. She didn’t want to tell him that it had been a childish act of defiance, because she blamed herself as much as it was already. Solas was badly injured, and even though she had managed to remove the arrows and bind his cuts with the help of moss and roots, he was still dancing back and forth between consciousness and dreams. Miraculously, she was completely unharmed, but Solas, that poor soul…  
“I’m alive, Dorian”, Dirthara roared through the tears - oh, how it annoyed her that those damned tears decided to flow like the water out of broken dams on every other occasion. “Solas wasn’t supposed to be there, and I can’t do anything to…”  
“Calm down, little dove, calm down.” Dorian gave Solas’ battered body a worried glance. “Poisons are not my forté, but I can heal the wounds. I’ll see what I can find in our luggage, maybe Lady Vivienne gave us something for this eventuality...”  
“I should have listened, I should have…” Dirthara rambled, she knew she did but right now she was too upset to care.   
“Yes, that is generally what one does when Solas speaks”, Dorian pointed out with an annoyed frown. “I hate to admit it, but he is usually right.”   
“That is not what I meant”, Dirthara blubbered on, because what she had in mind was her old mentor. Sulevin, the herbalist - she should have listened to his ancient wisdom when she had the chance. It had been her responsibility as a Keeper to know the herbs, to spread the knowledge. It had been her… And still, she didn’t. She learnt the healing spells, little fickle things that could help a hunter with a sprained ankle or stop a bleeding from a minor cut, but this… It was always Farras that excelled in those classes, and Dirthara, who always tried to match his skills, could never reach…  
Dirthara gasped. That was it! Farras!  
“I need to sleep”, she murmured and sniffled.  
“Sleep.” Dorian cursed under his breath. “Damned dreamers, Corypheus should be proof enough: you can’t find all the answers in the Fade.”  
“In times like these, the best medicine is a good beating.” Iron Bull tapped her shoulder in a friendly manner. “One pain that takes out the other.”  
Dirthara rubbed her face with the back of her hand. “No, I need to sleep. I know someone…”  
“Vishante Kaffas… Sure, fine, of course. Let the Vint deal with broken bodies, while the Inquisitor gets her beauty sleep. As if she needs it.” Dorian began to remove Solas’ clothes as carefully as possible.  
“Um, don’t get too excited, mage boy.” Iron Bull flexed his arms a little, which had Dorian look up, at first confused and then with a scowl.  
Iron Bull snickered. “Quite the stink-eye you've got going, Dorian.”  
“You stand there, flexing your muscles, huffing like some beast of burden with no thought save conquest.” Dorian put his hands in his sides and glared at the Qunari. “Get me some clean fabric to cover these wounds with instead.”  
“That's right. These big muscled hands could tear those robes off while you struggled, helpless in my grip.” Iron Bull moved forward, still with the muscles in his arms twitching.  
“I'd pin you down, and as you gripped my horns; I. Would. Conquer. You”, he continued with a low growl that had Dirthara take a step forward with her hand glowing with a readied spell. This wasn’t happening, not now. It had been one of those things she worried about before - that Iron Bull and Dorian eventually would clash - but since they reached Skyhold, she had pushed those worries aside.  
Dorian looked confused, but not enough to get ready for a fight. “Uh. What?”  
“Oh.” Iron Bull lowered his arms. “Is that not where we're going?”  
No. It was very much not.” Dorian’s face turned red as his eyes locked with Dirthara’s. “Damn it, Sweetheart, I thought you said you needed to sleep.”  
Dirthara’s gaze skipped back and forth between Dorian and the back fo Iron Bull as he left in his pursuit of clean rags. Her spell returned into her hand as she began to giggle. Dorian and Iron Bull?  
“Oh, what would your father say?” She managed to press out between the bursts of laughter.  
“Stop it.” Dorian returned to Solas’ mangled body. “We don’t have much time, hurry up.”

Farras’ song was one of the forest, and she noticed the similarities with the sounds from the Arbor Wilds. When he arrived to her little clearing, he did so just as silently as the elves of that ancient forest, and she realized that even when she tried her best, she would never match his skills. A hunter, schooled follower of Banal'ras; he could become invisible, inaudible, almost disappear completely. And he stood there, materialized as if out of thin air, in the shadow under one of the trees, arms crossed, leaning one of his shoulders against the tree trunk as if he’d been there studying her for hours.  
“Farras”, she murmured and lowered her gaze. “Please, I need your help.”  
The red haired elf snickered and moved out into the light from the fire with the lithe flow of a cat. His hair was glowing with the same intensity as the autumn wood surrounding them and the fire reflected in his eyes. “So, you’re asking? That’s new.”  
Dirthara grunted. “I know, I’m sorry, if it makes you feel more comfortable, I could just possess you and...”  
Farras burst into laughter and sat down beside her. “Glad to see that you still have your sense of humour.”  
“Who said I was joking?” Dirthara winked and put her arms around her old friend with a sigh. “I’m glad to see you.”  
Farras returned the embrace with a low hum: “And yet you have avoided me. How rude.”  
“I haven’t avoided you, I’ve just…” Yeah, she had stayed out of touch with everybody, to be honest. He was right. She had spent her nights in a small bubble of darkness that she had crafted for herself, something similar to the Void she was beginning to become very acquainted with.  
“They are all listening for you, so don’t stay out of touch for too long.” Farras grabbed her shoulders and held her on an arm’s length away from him as he studied her face. “They are right, though; you have changed. Is it the blood of the wolves running through your veins, or the teachings of a confused priest of the Forgotten Ones?”  
“Come on, Farras, it’s just me. And I still need your help.” Dirthara brushed his words away, because they made her feel uncomfortable. When he spoke like a spirit, it was infuriating, and it shouldn’t be. Mostly, she had managed to salvage what was left of his shattered soul, but she knew that it truly was the spirit of him that she had found, not the man. It had been like rekindling a friendship with a person who knew her through and through, a person she should have known just as well but didn’t, and the spirit behind Farras had been afraid of her at first.  
“It’s Solas. He’s been poisoned, and…”  
“Yeah, that guy.” Farras frowned. “He could just get another body, you know - it’s just the vessel that is falling apart, not the spirit.”  
Dirthara studied Farras’ face for a moment before she spoke. “Spirits follow bloodlines, Farras, so how long would it take me to find him a relative that we could, you know, kill off without damaging the vessel?”  
Farras looked shocked at first, then collected himself. “Well, that depends on how you plan to commit suicide, da'len.”  
“What?” His words didn’t make sense at first, especially since this idea never had been a serious alternative. When the penny finally dropped, she thought she might fall out of her illusion. The fire began to warp around her feet and the grass climbed up her legs. “We’re related…?”  
“Well, yeah”, Farras grabbed one of the knives from his belt and began to clean his nails.  
“Wait… That’s irrelevant”, Dirthara began as she tried to regain focus of her scene, “But seriously, how is that even…?”  
“The vessel is a distant cousin, but the spirit...” Farras uttered an overwhelmed whistle and blew away some dirt from his blade as he studied his nails closely. “If you choose to sacrifice yourself for him, you wouldn’t be the first, that’s all that I’m saying.”  
Dirthara shook her head, as if that would shake her puzzled thoughts in order. “If you’re not willing to help, I mean…”, she muttered, but in reality, it wasn’t how she wanted to solve things.  
Farras looked up from his nails and removed the blade with a somber expression. “You don’t mean that. If you did, I would gladly meet you here in the Fade and stand by your side throughout the eternity, but you don’t mean that.”  
Dirthara just snickered as a response, even though this new information still had her baffled. Solas must have known, so why did he keep information like this away from her? And all this talk about wolves… She hadn’t thought much of it before, but it had surfaced in conversations too many times to be a coincidence. She knew Solas wouldn’t tell her, just as Farras kept his secrets to himself just to make her beg for them, but her father… He might just be the person to tell her all about it. He loved his own voice a bit too much to pass up such an opportunity.  
“So, I take it you’ll help me then.” Dirthara smiled.  
“Sure, whatever.” Farras grunted and furrowed his brows. “Wake up, and I’ll be the little bird whispering in your ear.”


	39. Peace talks

Solas  
As he was lying there on his belly in the tent, just taking in every little inch of Dirthara’s face, the shape of her shoulders, waist and hips under the blanket, he noticed that she still had mud on both her hands and in her hair. That pale blonde mess he was used to see - strange that he hadn’t noticed earlier, how it was covered in brown mud from the riverbanks, leaves and sticks from the path they had walked. So, that far, his memories were true. He had followed her into the woods, he had been hit by arrows, she had taken him to the river to clean his wounds. He wasn’t sure if what he’d seen in that river was true though, that memory was fuzzy and filled him with so much regret. It brought him back to a time when he still was young, when anger ran through his veins like a poison. His temper still ran hot, but with age came some restraint. It was harder to maintain in a physical body, where muscle and mind would play their own little games. Maybe he would have been just as violent in this body at that time, or maybe the memories of his son’s mind combined with his own pain made things even worse.  
With his thoughts swept away thousands of years back in time, he didn’t notice when Dirthara woke up; not until their eyes met. Solas held his breath for a moment, not certain of how things would pass. She had left him in anger, brought him back with love, and now… Which side of the truth would she choose? He knew what path he’d chosen, and when it came to Dirthara it would never change. No matter what, she would always be his one true half. In one moment, immature and hot tempered, stirring up unrest and forcing him out of his boundaries; in the next she was old as time itself and showed the wisdom that only experience could give. He would always choose her, but it would be on her terms.  
“So, um…” she cleared her throat and Solas swallowed. Damn it, she had cleared her throat, that meant that she wanted to discuss something complicated. Fenedhis lasa, he wasn’t prepared for that, his mind not clear enough to give the right answers.  
“When were you planning to tell me that we’re kin?” She spoke calmly, but Solas felt all the color leave his face. What did she know? Had he said something he shouldn’t have, or was there someone else who had spoken? The bear. It had to be the bear.  
“I didn’t think it was relevant”, Solas replied hoarsely while studying her face for clues. What was she thinking? Closed up, like a clam; he couldn’t read her.  
“Of course it isn’t.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, but her face still wouldn’t show even a trace of emotion. “I guess it’s just smart to have a spare vessel close by if the present one gets, let’s say, hit by a bunch of poisoned arrows.”  
“Ah.” Solas wished he had the strength to get up on his feet and leave the tent, this was not a conversation he wished to have right now, especially not with her. And this position he was in - it was hardly respectable to lay flat on one’s belly with arrows sticking out of one’s back. Figuratively speaking, of course; the arrows har been removed, he assumed. If not, he was too numb to feel them.  
“A soul is never forced upon the unwilling”, he pointed out evenly, despite the fact that her accusation made him feel both furious and offended. How could she even think such a thing of him?  
Dirthara didn’t move a muscle, but for a second Solas felt a strange shift in the air around her. A dangerous glint in her eyes, something that reminded him of a cat playing with its prey.  
“So, the guy you’re wearing right now just thought ‘fuck it, I’m leaving’ without a little nudge in the right direction?”  
Solas felt cold sweat run down his back. “People often claim to hunger for truth, but seldom like the taste when it is served”, he began, but he was crudely interrupted.  
“Yes, the true magician uses his words to perform with smoke and mirrors. I would give you a slow clap, but I’m not in the mood.” The corners of Dirthara’s lips tilted upwards, but still Solas didn’t know what to read out of her in other means expressionless face.   
“So you killed him”, she stated, rather than asked. “What was his name - Felassan, or was it Shartan? Wait, the name his mother gave him… Fenvir. The Path of the Wolf. Isn’t it curious how all his names stem back to just one character of myth?”  
“All of his names?” Solas repeated those words both to save himself some time and to lead Dirthara somewhat off track.  
“Harel’taren, wasn’t that what he was called before the Andrastians mangled his legacy and wrote him out of history? A prideful name he gave himself, which slowly changed into nothing at all.” Now she was wearing a full grin, but it wasn’t one of those entrancing, beautiful smiles that Solas had grown so fond of. She was glowing, but the shadows were growing around her.  
“Get to the point, Dirthara.” Solas grunted from pain as he tried to find a more dignified position; he didn’t want to show her that he actually was afraid. As best as he could, considering the circumstances, he managed to find and maintain a relatively relaxed stance lying on the side with his head resting in his palm.  
The grin disappeared from Dirthara’s lips, but the stern gaze she had him locked under was hardly reducing his anxiety.   
“The blood of the wolves runs through my veins and my father always called me his little Fennec”, she finally said. “It is not a coincidence that Felassan chose the names he had.”  
Solas swallowed again. “There is no such thing as coincidences”, he murmured.  
Dirthara sighed and rolled with her eyes. “Yes, as always, just keep your little secrets. I will find the truth eventually, Solas…” she hesitated and gave him an evaluating glare. “Or whatever your name is…”  
“I am Solas, a dreamer, born into slavery in Tevinter.” Solas paused. Nothing of it was a lie, technically. He had been a slave just like everybody else, but he had been luckier than most; born in a golden cage. Geographically, his lands - well, what remained of it after the first Blight - were within the borders of the Imperium. Introducing himself to her again, like this, gave him enough time to figure out how to answer her question without telling her too much, because he was at least sure of one thing; she had figured it out, only needed the proof.  
“The blood of the wolf, as you call it… You carry his bloodline, his sign on your face, his legacy in your name.”  
Dirthara furrowed her brow and sat up with a jerk. Her hands moved slowly up to her Vallaslin, and with shaking fingers she followed the blue lines that were tattooed into her skin. “Dirthamen?”  
She sounded so surprised that Solas almost exhaled loudly with relief when he nodded to confirm her question. He knew what she had expected him to say, and this unveiling would hopefully keep her sated - at least for a while.  
“Yes, Felassan died. I had walked by his side for a very long time when it happened”, Solas continued, now much calmer. He never gave it much thought before; it had been too easy to view Felassan as a lesser being then, that his life was unimportant in the grander scheme, but now… A young spirit, sure, but if they all could be real, who had Felassan really been? As Shartan - yes, it had been Harel’taren, the Deceiver or Opposer of the Minds - he had been a lot like Solas. Were they too similar for him to see the semblances? Could it have been a shard of the soul that once had been Solas before it merged into what he now was? A memory grown to life, just like Dirthara, or a strong wish that took shape just like Compassion did in Cole?  
“This resembles a wolf?” Dirthara didn’t seem to have heard him; eyes wide open but focused inwards, eyebrows raised in confusion. “But I thought Fen’Harel…”  
Solas flinched when she took that name in her mouth, squirmed like a worm and felt his entire back from shoulder to his toes burn as the injured muscles moved. “The Dread Wolf earned his name because of his banners and his deeds”, Solas murmured and hoped that Dirthara was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to hear how his voice trembled. “We are related to him too.”  
Yes, we. When Solas had mantled that name, he had still been his son, the heir of Silence. His silence had been different however; a deadly, expectant kind, like the drums that forced the armies forward, or the calm before the storm, and the beat had followed the piece of him that had remained.   
Then Dirthara’s hands fell to her lap and their eyes locked once again. “Then, who are you? Really?”  
“I told you. I am Solas. That was the name given to me by my parents.” Solas furrowed his brows. “I have never lied to you, Dirthara.”  
Dirthara snorted and shook her head. “No, you just leave out vital information when it suits you.”  
Solas bit his bottom lip to not scream when he returned to lie flat on his belly. This disturbing questioning was making him sore. “Vhenan, with every breath I am afraid to lose you. I know your persistence, your resentfulness and your passion just as I know myself, and if I was you I would hate me with an aggressive fury. We are both to blame for our rocky relationship, but in the end I will always love you no matter what.”  
Dirthara broke their eye contact and looked down at her hands in her lap. “Yeah… This is a bit too much to swallow all at once, Solas. You’ve had a head start on life, by I don’t know how many years, so maybe this all seems normal to you, but…”  
Solas sighed, closed his eyes and let his head fall down to the pillow. “Yes, yes, and I linger, as I have done for an eternity, it seems. You leave me in suspense and it’s tearing me apart.”  
There was a short silence, then he felt her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers were cold, but the touch left his skin burning.  
“Solas? You have to understand. This is all very confusing to me. I love everything that is you, but from my understanding, some of it is someone else. It is Felassan’s hands touching me, Felassan’s lips kissing me, Felassan’s voice, Felassan’s eyes, Felassan’s smile…”  
Solas didn’t answer, just remembered that large, burly man with hair and skin as dark as the night’s sky that Dirthara’s spirit used to reside in, and realized that if he had found it baffling to discover that spirit in this beautiful shape, steered by this beautiful mind, it must be even worse for her. So he nodded, but he didn’t open his eyes.

Dirthara

A couple of days later, they were on the move again. Not as hard and fast as before; Solas couldn’t handle that; but at least they were leaving the treacherous Arbor Wilds behind them. Dirthara looked back over her shoulder, over and over again, towards the massive trees as they slowly shrunk in the distance. Of course that large primeval forest made her curious; she knew that she and Solas had been hunted by elves, but the arrow she had pulled out of Solas’ shoulder didn’t look like anything she was familiar with. If they were Dalish, they had branched off from the wandering tribes a long time ago. On the other hand, she didn’t know much about the world. She had learnt how to read and write both the common tongue and ancient elven, read everything she had found about the history of Thedas, but she knew nothing to little about the world before the First Blight. Even her own history was as full of holes as a Fereldan cheese, and geographically, this was as far south she had ever been - to be honest, she knew nothing to little about the world as it was now, too.  
The Orlesian steppe that spread out before them slowly turned into desert and soon enough the traces of the Dales were exchanged into even older Elven ruins and Tevinter remains. The harsh climate seemed to have conserved the buildings, some of them almost intact, and Dirthara couldn’t help but speculate if these buildings had been left because they were falling apart or or if they were falling apart because they had been left. The architectural styles stood in stark contrast to one another; the Elven delicacy in comparison to Tevinter pomp and circumstance. She couldn’t remember ever seeing these mixes back home in the Free Marshes, where everything had a certain Dwarven angularity. The bird statues for example, that could be found almost everywhere in all the city states in the north, had to be Elven of origin, even though it looked like the work of Dwarves.  
“We’re reaching the Western Approach”, Dorian pointed out when a Fennec startled their horses by running out in front of them across their dusty path.   
“A good place to find Witherstalk”, Solas murmured, almost automatically, with his eyes focused far in the distance. “There is an oasis up ahead, we should make camp there.”  
“I had hoped that we’d reach Griffon Wing Keep before nightfall”, Dirthara protested, but changed her mind when she saw Solas’ pale face. He nodded stoically, but Dirthara regretted her hasty words. To see him this fragile was an eyeopener, and her concern about his well-being made her order that stop in the oasis after all. As soon as she had jumped off the back of her horse, she was by his side. He moved slowly with her help into the shadow under a couple of trees and bit his jaws together when she helped him down on the ground to rest. Of course it had to be difficult to ride with those wounds; he could hardly sit down as it was already, so a saddle would not make it easier.  
“Wait here, I’ll just get you something to drink”, she whispered when he finally lied down on his belly on the blanket she had spread out for him, eyes closed and head resting against his folded arms. His reply was a weak smile and a nod, wich was distressing enough. Dirthara tried to convince herself that he would get better sooner if he just got some rest, but when she had collected the water and returned to his spot in the cool shadow she wasn’t sure anymore. He was already fast asleep. Dirthara sank down on the blanket beside him and studied his face.  
Felassan’s face.   
But it had become a face that she loved. His light brown eyebrows, deep set eyes with little crow’s feet in the corners as if he’d been smiling or squinting in the sun. His skin was pale, but still a shade darker than hers.  
Yet again, this was Felassan’s face - it belonged to a man she never knew. Solas, that was the name of the spirit, the name that had belonged to a different pair of eyes, a face that didn’t have that little dimple in his chin, that old scar on his forehead… Was it Solas who prefered to shave all of his hair, or had that been something Felassan did?  
Dirthara had read that elves were shapeshifters by nature. What if this was what Solas really looked like?  
No, that was stupid. Shapeshifting was difficult, why change into something without meaning? A new face hardly made a difference in a life or death situation. Dirthara had studied the base principles of the art; understood the theory but never learnt the craft, even though her father had tried to teach her. He had insisted that the gods shaped the elves from air, and because of that, the form was tangible. Shapeshifting was, according to him, a form of mastery in her craft, but Dirthara had only seen it done once. There was a woman at the last Arlathvhen - she was the first of the Alerion Clan, Dirthara believed - who had taken the shape of a wildcat.   
But what if…? Solas could very well have mastered the art; he was talented without being boastful, so he would have kept something like that to himself.   
Yes, of course. The blood of the wolves.  
The wolves that guided her through the storm after Haven.   
The blood of the wolves… If conservation and safeguarding of cultural heritage of Elven significance was of any importance, it would be her duty... She should learn it too.  
...It would be easier in the Fade, and from her understanding...  
Dirthara was hastily pulled away from her thoughts when Solas moved in his sleep. A low grunt escaped from his mouth and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead.  
Wasn’t his breaths more shallow than before? Didn’t he look paler? She put one of her hands to his brow. Maybe he was a little warm?  
“Dorian?” Dirthara noticed how her voice became a shrill shriek.  
“I’m enjoying a game of chess, darling, is it urgent?” His voice was somewhat muted, as if he was speaking into his own palm. From what Dirthara could hear, he was on the other side of some bushes, just where the tents had been raised.  
“He looks pale”, she exclaimed with her heart skipping about like a hunted rabbit in her chest, “he might have a fever!”  
“Vishante Kaffas.” Dorian’s head popped up behind the bushes before he rushed around them. “Are the wounds warm? Did you give him water?”  
“I don’t know, he fell asleep and then…” Dirthara inhaled deeply and held her breath to still the panic that was racing through her body. Not a fever, please, let it not be a fever, they didn’t have the potions they needed, and this climate… What if it was gangrene, and they would have to cut something off?   
“Oh, crap shit fuckbuckets in a nasty sock, I think I’m going to throw up!”  
“Calm down. Take ten deep breaths.” Dorian kneeled beside Solas and gave him a quick inspection; made sure the bandages were still in place, gave the stitches in his shoulder a gander and listened to his respiration.  
“Everything seems alright, Dirthara”, he said after a while, “He’s sleeping, and I think you should get some rest too.”  
“Just sleeping?” Dirthara shook her head. “I’ve never seen him like this, something is wrong.”  
“I didn’t know you spent your nights studying his sleep cycles.” Dorian lifted one eyebrow and smirked. “He’s in a stage of dreamless deep sleep. He needs this to heal faster.”  
Dirthara wasn’t sure if she believed him or not, but his words had a appeasing effect on her nerves. She took one last deep breath and studied Solas face as she let her fingertips brush over his cheeks and chin. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the stubble felt like thin needles under her light touch.  
“Get some rest”, Dorian repeated as he stood up, “you need it just as much as he does.”  
Sleep. She couldn’t, that was out of the question, what would she do if she woke up to find him dead by her side? Dirthara nodded and sank down by Solas’ side, but she was not going to sleep; that was out of the question.

It was as if someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut time in two, removed a piece and then glued it together again, because all of the sudden it was pitch black around her and the cicadas were playing their songs in the tall grass. She startled into motion when she realized that she had fallen asleep after all, and was just about to sit up when she felt an arm around her.  
“Don’t go.” Solas’ voice was raspy and faint. “Please, the night is warm.”  
Dirthara quietly moved closer and settled herself by his side with a sigh. “Are you alright? Do you need something for the pain, something to drink?”  
Solas chuckled and pulled her into an embrace. “I need you, nothing else.”  
Dirthara didn’t quite know how to react; the expectant flutter in her stomach ignited an impulse to smile and throw her arms around him, but in her head she was still working out all the kinks in this strange relationship. Solas must have felt her freeze in his arms, because he cleared his throat and let her go.  
“I’m sorry, Solas.” Dirthara frowned and swallowed a curse. She already missed his touch. “It’s all in my head, I don’t…”  
Solas let out a strained laugh. “Yes, our minds have a tendency to complicate things. You gave me time when I needed it, and I will grant you the same in return.”  
“All the time I need?”, Dirthara murmured and remembered how she almost expected him to sleep on it for a century or so. She smiled as she reached for his hand and grabbed it. “Let’s just take it slow.”


	40. The Still Ruins

Solas  
The stitches in his shoulder made his skin feel stretched with every move his horse made and the deep cuts in his buttock and thigh was a constant pain. The heat hardly made it better; with his eyes closed he sat there slumped over on the back of the horse, drenched in his own sweat. Through this semi-conscious state, he just listened; mainly to Dorian, who just didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut:  
“I’m so thirsty that I’m dying from the inside out! I hope that fort of yours can provide with some decent room service”, he huffed, but his complaining didn’t get the attention he presumably had expected; after just a short pause he was at it again.  
“I mean, this noise, for example. Does it ever stop?”  
Solas agreed. Not even here could he find silence.  
“Well, it's sand blowing on sand in a place full of wind and sand”, Iron Bull muttered, which had Solas chuckle. Apparently, it wasn’t just him that felt like he’d seen enough sand dunes for a lifetime.  
Dorian cursed under his breath. “Thank you. That makes so much more sense now.”  
“Hey, do any of you know why we’re at least not going to starve to death in the desert?” Dirthara sounded just as tired as the rest of them, and her cheerful tone with which she spoke was just to keep their spirits up.  
“Not a clue”, Dorian grunted.  
Dirthara snickered. “Because of all the sand which is there.”  
“Vishante Kaffas…”  
“Sandwitches…” Iron Bull chuckled. “I get it.”  
“What makes a desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well”, Solas muttered in response, upon which Dorian began to laugh.  
“And I almost took you for dead, Solas”, he said, “How are you holding up?”  
“Oh, don’t worry about me. This is when I appreciate learning the magic to prevent sunburn on a bald head.” Solas opened his eyes, stretched his back with a pained grunt and squinted towards the horizon. The air was so hot that the sky and sand blurred together into wavy lines, and above their heads the sun had almost reached zenit; soon enough it would be too hot to continue.   
Dirthara rode up by his side and gave him a scrutinous look. That was at least what Solas thought it had to be; most of her face was, just like his, covered by layers of scarves and she could just as well be squinting at him because of the sun.   
“We should find some shelter”, she muttered.  
“I wish you the best of luck.” Solas closed his eyes again and slouched back into the saddle.  
Yes, the Western Approach. There wasn’t much left here from his time - or any other time, for the matter - the Second Blight had left the land altered beyond recognition and recovery. He never travelled this far to the southwest during the year he spent on foot before the Conclave; he never saw a reason. Because of that, he didn’t know the geography and had to put his trust in the others to find the way. It was mildly unsettling, especially since the maps of the area were questionable in their accuracy at best.  
“There’s a mountainous region further north from here”, Dirthara replied calmly, “Do you recognize those black spears in the horizon, Dorian?”  
A short pause occured before Dorian let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, how lovely. The Still Ruins. Another example of time magic gone wrong.”  
“At least it’s shelter”, Dirthara pointed out, and for a long while they carried on under silence. It was getting too hot to speak, and Solas was getting more and more thankful for the scarves Dirthara had tied around his head and face before they left their camp that morning. It made it easier to breathe and allowed him to fall into this state of half slumber. His scalp and ears were already red like a boiled lobster because of a short moment of carelessness; he didn’t need more sunburns to add to his other injuries.  
“Time magic”, he repeated slowly, “is that the ruins you told me of when…” Solas stopped talking abruptly and felt the tips of his ears turn even warmer - if that was possible.  
“Yes.” Dirthara’s reply was as short as a whiplash.  
“Ah.” Solas hadn’t expected everything to go back to normal quite yet, but since that night under the stars, there had been a strange tension between them. Solas felt insecure, didn’t dare to follow his impulses around her, and he got the feeling that she didn’t either. Dirthara only touched him when she helped him changing the bandages, and even that became weird.  
“Yes. The Still Ruins. Fascinating, really; the magic in that place is old, and still a small breach was frozen within that spell. Open, and with demons pouring out of it.” Dorian’s words interrupted Solas’ thoughts so abruptly that he staggered in the saddle and turned his head to look at the mage.  
“A breach?” Solas repeated, since this simple statement was enough to justify his stagger. Attempts to imitate that entry into the Fade had been done several times after Corypheus’ experiment; Solas wasn’t really that surprised. “How did they do it?”  
“Ah, because it’s Tevinter, you’re expecting it to be blood magic.” Dorian snorted.  
“It’s a means to an end”, Solas replied with a nonchalant wave of his hand, which had Dorian turning his head to study him with a confused look on his face.

As they made the last piece of their trek through the desert, Dirthara’s concerns about his well-being was starting to become a nuisance. She wouldn’t let him doze off like before, and these sudden wake up calls made him dance back and forth between wake and a deep dreamless sleep. It was getting difficult to keep the two apart and it was making him dizzy.  
“Stay with me, Solas, we just need to get a little bit further”, she said, with eyes darting back and forth between him and their goal. From that, Solas came to the conclusion that he really must look like crap.  
“Fenedhis lasa, I’m right here”, he grunted in reply the last time she stopped by his side to make sure he stayed awake.  
“The track is uneven up this mountainside”, she muttered in return. “I need you to be alert and in the saddle.”  
“I am, I am!” Solas grumbled.  
“Yeah, with your eyes closed.” Dirthara cursed under her breath and had another look ahead.  
“I was just resting them! The sand and the strong light…” Solas protested, but he was interrupted.  
“You were snoring and about to fall off the horse.” Dirthara glared at him before she urged her horse to move faster.  
Solas muttered something in return, but fought a bit harder to stay awake. When they finally reached the natural gates between two steep walls of mountains and entered a wide valley where the remains of civilization guided them further in, the cooler air and sight of greenery exhausted him completely rather than the other way around. Solas expected that he was mentally winding down after the journey, and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open. They stopped and got off their horses just outside another gate, but Solas more fell than climbed down from the horseback without really perceiving what was going on around him or taking in the location. His legs felt like over cooked asparagus when his feet touched the ground and hadn’t it been for Dirthara, who came to his assistance before he even noticed that his head was spinning, he would have fallen to the ground. She was however much smaller than him and crumbled under his weight; she grunted and put her arms around his waist.  
“Dorian, there’s blood everywhere.” Dirthara’s voice wore an undertone of desperation.  
“Bull, carry him inside.” Dorian put an arm around Dirthara’s back, and even though Solas knew there was no reason for this stupid jealousy, he wanted to scream that Dirthara was his and nobody else’s.   
“Sweetheart, it’s a nosebleed - calm down”, Dorian continued after a quick glance upon Solas’ face.  
“I’m alright.” Solas lifted his hand to his face just as his feet lost contact with the ground. Iron Bull’s large arms were like tree trunks of steel around him. “Hey, I said I was…”  
“Yeah, yeah, you’re tough and strong, I heard.” Iron Bull chuckled. “Squishy mages, the whole lot of you - without me you wouldn’t stay alive even for a day.”  
Solas didn’t have the energy to argue, and behind them he could hear Dirthara hyperventilate while Dorian was talking silently to her. The strangest part was that all of this felt like it was happening to somebody else; he was alert enough to see this, but viewed it all as if it was a scene in the Fade. In any other case, he’d been worried about Dirthara instead of falling asleep with his cheek against the large, warm chest of Iron Bull.

He woke up after a dreamless rest, so cold that he was shivering. He was indoors - that was at least his first impression - lying in recovery position on a dirty tile floor and Dirthara sat with her legs crossed beside him in a pile of desert sand. Her eyes were open, but her mind was drifting. Solas couldn’t read a thought from her face, but her focus was steadily directed towards a small wisp of fire that she had conjured in her palm. It was dancing back and forth between her hands like a butterfly, skipped from fingertip to fingertip. Her magic was like a light caress over his skin, a low hum that was so deeply connected to her cadence that he just like her sank into thoughts as he studied her profile. Her words; that she loved everything that was him, but. In Solas’ experience, that single word ‘but’ rendered everything said before that completely useless. In her eyes, or at least from her understanding as for now, large parts of him was someone else. Felassan. Solas could understand her confusion, but at the same time he was disappointed. What they had was something different, a connection beyond genetics - even beyond construct of time. Yes, of course; in Felassan’s body he was just a mammal, blindly programmed to reproduce; and as a mammal, she herself was young, healthy and… Oh, fenedhis lasa, he had forgotten about that. All of this, it had only one purpose, and he let that little detail slip from his memory. That reflection - of fertility and all that came with it - must have made him breathe differently, because Dirthara froze. The wisp disappeared into her hand and the tingle on Solas’ skin disappeared. No, not all of it, just hers. There was something else, something old, of his own making, mimicking the spell that was written in his orb, and it had him awake and alert in an instant.  
“There is ancient magic here”, he murmured hoarsely with a hint of surprise as he kept on studying Dirthara’s profile. “I can sense it like ripples on my skin.”  
“It’s an ancient place”, Dirthara replied calmly, but she looked tense.   
“Ancient?” Solas snorted, rolled over on his back and tried to sit up, but he fell back towards the floor with a grunt just as Dirthara skipped to his side with anxious rapidity.  
“You should rest”, she hummed before she kneeled by his side with a sigh and one of those worried smiles. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”   
“Can you not sense it?” Solas tried to sit up again, but Dirthara held him down. With his head in her lap and her fingers gently following the lines of his face he returned to that dreamless darkness.

Dirthara  
“Concentrated Magebane?” Dirthara shook her head in confusion. “He’s bleeding, for no apparent reason, how does that have anything to do with his mana pool?”  
Farras, who was lying on his back on one of the trunks around the fire in her private little clearing in the Fade, grunted and threw a stick at her. “Use your head, da’len.”  
Oh, those words again. He was just five years older than her, this was stupid.  
“I am not a child.” Dirthara caught the stick in one hand and flung it right back at him. Farras blocked it with his arm and the stick fell to the ground.  
“Well then. Stop acting like one, you spoilt brat”, he chuckled, braced himself when Dirthara flew over him to punch him in the stomach. Soon enough they were rolling around on the ground fighting and biting like children, but as soon as Farras chose to take the upper hand, it turned into a tickle war. He wrestled her down and pinned her to the ground, laughing almost as hard as she did, even though he never were ticklish at all.  
“I yield! I yield!” Dirthara kicked and screamed between attacks of laughter, “Farras, stop it!”  
“Not until you bow down to your master”, he snickered and poked her sides. Damn it, he was just as infuriating as he’d ever been.  
“I shall never surrender!” Dirthara fought to get out of his grip, laughing and grunting, well aware of the spirits watching their game with fascination. Whispers telling her that they would drop everything to come to her aid if needed. Sure, nerves on the surface, memories of what he had become and what he could do to her just a breath away, but this was who he used to be. The Farras she remembered from their secret meetings in the forests outside the camp. But when his touch became caresses and he instead of holding her down pulled her into his arms, she tensed up. Yes, this was the Farras she remembered, and if things hadn’t been so complicated she might even want to... but it was different now.  
“Um... “ Dirthara took a deep breath to collect herself. “Solas. Remember him?”  
Farras smile remained, but the glow in his eyes disappeared. “Oh, right, that thing.” His fingers began to play with her hair.  
Dirthara chuckled. “You call him a ‘thing’ now?”  
“The egghead is more spirit than man”, Farras pointed out with a shrug.  
“Well, to be perfectly honest, so are you.” Dirthara pinched his nose and smiled.  
Farras got off her and helped her back on her feet with a frown. “Thanks to you, my new name should be Crispy.”  
“You are free to choose any name you want, Farras.” Dirthara brushed away some dry grass and dirt from her clothes, and realized that she still wore her tattered white coat in the Fade. She should change that, it would be easier to reanimate her dream if she stayed as close to reality as possible.  
Of course. That was why Solas wore the face of Felassan in the Fade. Wait, that was hardly of any importance. She was here, because of Solas’ health, not to justify his misleading truths.   
“Concentrated Magebane, huh?” she muttered, mainly to herself. “According to lore, the gods made the elves from air, magic is what holds us together…”  
“So, you do have a brain after all.” Farras gave har a light punch on the arm. “Do you remember the antidote?”  
Dirthara scowled and shook her head. “Farras, don’t be stupid.”  
“Fine.” Farras turned around and implored her to follow with a gesture. “I’ll show you.”

Dirthara woke up from her dream, energetic and restless. Dorian, who was sitting on the floor between her and Solas jumped from surprise when she got to her feet.  
“Regeneration potion”, she muttered and hurried towards the entrance, “I need some herbs.”  
“Wait, Dirthara!” Dorian stood up to and rushed after her. “We have that, it is in the chest over there.”  
“Yes, but I need to upgrade it. See if you can find some Arbor Blessing and get your alembic ready, I’ll be back soon.” She left the castle ruin with Dorian’s protests echoing behind her back. Amrita Vein. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she needed that specific plant to increase the duration of the regeneration potion; she had seen them grow in the desert just outside the oasis. She didn’t get far, however. Just as she was about to exit through the natural gates between the cliffs, she heard heavy steps behind her. With a sudden flutter in her stomach she realized that she had forgotten her staff inside together with her backpack, so she turned around with the spell to form a spirit blade ready in her hand.  
“Bull”, she exhaled and let her hands drop. “What are you doing here?”  
“It might be a good idea to watch your back once in awhile, Boss”, Iron Bull chuckled as he walked up by her side, “You know, just a thought.”  
Dirthara nodded. She had been too focused on her goal to think of anything else.   
“For your size, you move surprisingly silently”, she stated, instead of arguing with him, and slowed down to a more comfortable pace.  
“Hm. For my size, huh?” Bull shook his head. “What’s going on, what are you doing out here?”  
“I saw some herbs on our way here that I need to produce a more efficient potion…” Dirthara began, upon which Iron Bull nodded and scratched his chin.  
“Um, Boss, you could just tell him. This is like walking across the river to reach the well; he’s right there, and you’re over here…” he pointed towards the gate behind their backs.  
Dirthara didn’t get what he was talking about at first, then she furrowed her brows. “It’s a bit complicated. Besides, we’re in a hurry, and I need him back on his feet as soon as possible.”  
Iron Bull patted her back with a snicker. “Yep, that’s all there is to it, definitely. Those long, smoldering gazes where you undress him with your eyes, or the fact that you are so worried that you can’t even sleep - that has nothing to do with it.”  
“Um…” Dirthara felt how her face grew warmer. “As I said. It’s complicated. Now, help me find this herb. It’s called Amrita Vein, has a rather thick stalk surrounded by long leaves by the ground…”  
“Over there, Boss.” Bull pointed her in the right direction with his entire arm. The heat outside the oasis was already getting unbearable, so Dirthara was relieved that she didn’t have to search for them.  
“But I wouldn’t call it complicated when it goes both ways”, Bull continued, which had Dirthara confused. She bent down to dig up the entire plant without giving him a reply.  
“I mean, he looks like he’s about to shit himself every time you get into a fight…”  
“Oh, you’re talking about Solas.” Dirthara grunted and stood up with the plant hanging from her hand. “You should get this straight: he worries because he thinks I’m incompetent.” She turned around and walked back towards the gates with Bull just a few steps behind.  
“So that is you reason for making all these stops on the way here”, Iron Bull wanted to know. “That is why you have been smothering him in scarves, plaids and warm rabbit’s broth all this time?”  
Dirthara muttered something in return, something that didn’t mean anything even to her. “It still is complicated, alright?” she added as she hurried back inside. It was so complicated that she didn’t understand it herself, so how on Thedas was she going to explain that to Iron Bull?

She brewed the potion under constant supervision of Farras; Dorian flinched and glared at her every time she opened her mouth:  
“It isn’t too much, you saw me weigh it… yes, it was pulverized, I even poured it through a colander… Yes, I know, Farras, stop it…”  
“Hey, Sweetheart. What you’re doing right now - it’s not exactly legal”, Dorian pointed out after a while, which had Iron Bull looking at her over his shoulder. “Just so you don’t do that when Cassandra is about, you hear?”  
“What is she brewing?” Iron Bull wanted to know.  
“It’s nothing like that, she’s just…” Dorian shook his head and cursed under his breath. “An abomination.”  
Dirthara rolled her eyes and sighed. Sure, this was unorthodox, but it seemed to work. Of course it appeared strange; she was having a conversation with Farras, her dead childhood friend, and they only heard her side of the dialogue.  
“Yeah, Abomination, you heard them… Iron Bull. Yeah, you met him… Dorian? No, he joined us later… Yeah, he’s cool.” She turned her head and smiled at Dorian. “Farras says hi, he thinks you’re gorgeous.”  
Dorian looked like he didn’t know how to react, and the facial expression showed something between a smile and a scowl. It had both Dirthara and Iron Bull laughing, however.  
“Don’t be such a princess, Dorian”, Dirthara added as she poured the warm potion into bottles and sealed them. “This used to be common practice in Ferelden back in the day, still is in some of the Avvar tribes, in fact.”  
“So I’m the princess now?” Dorian collected the bottles and cleaned out the alembic. “Here I am, the mage from Tevinter, the one you’ve all been teasing about blood magic for the last year, and then you - the Inquisitor, and none other - decide to invite a demon into yourself…”   
“It is Farras, he’s not a demon”, Dirthara explained, but her words didn’t seem to mean anything to Dorian.  
“For now, yes, but your mind will taint him. You have a temper that might cause him to change into something else…” Dorian shook his head and walked away. “Damn it, what’s the use. You’ve always done what you think is best, my words hardly matter.”  
“How do you know so much about spirits all of a sudden?” Dirthara wanted to know.  
Dorian turned back to her with a bitter grin. “In Tevinter, we keep them as slaves, Sweetheart.”  
Both Dirthara and Farras became silent.   
“Um, Farras?”  
“Yes. I heard that.” He sounded concerned, which was only natural; he had just won his personality back and would hardly want to lose it again.  
“Maybe you should leave”, Dirthara hummed. She did enjoy having him around, but she also had enough self awareness to know that she probably wouldn’t be a good influence on him.  
“He makes a fair point. You will need to push from your end though...”  
“Sure, see you later then?”  
“Yup. On three?”  
“One. Two. Three!” She pushed with all her energy, and fell to the floor in a panting, sweating pile when he was gone. He had only been with her for a couple of days, and she already missed him.  
“Is he gone?” Dorian wanted to know. “Can you hear him, or is he really gone?”  
Dirthara nodded. “He’s gone.”  
“Good. Because it could just as easily have been the other way around.” Dorian helped her up from the floor. “If he hadn’t chosen to leave on his own accord, it would have been a long fight and one of you might have died.”  
Dirthara felt how all the colour left her face.


	41. At a loss

Solas  
“Solas?” Her voice, that deep purr that made every nerve in him shiver. He had thought it before and he would think it again; she was an unhealthy obsession.  
“Solas, it’s time to wake up.”  
He slowly opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was her, lying on her side on the ground in front of him. It must be morning; she braided her hair before she went to bed… And then she smiled. One of those smiles that had the entire world singing.  
“Good morning, sunshine”, he murmured and returned her smile. Waking up like this really was a good morning.  
“I have a potion for you that might help”, Dirthara hummed and gave him a small bottle. “It will regenerate your body faster over time.”  
Solas sat up slowly and studied the bottle in his hand. “Arbor Blessing?” he wondered as he unscrewed the cork.  
“And Elfroot, Rashvine and Amrita Vein.” She looked so satisfied with herself that Solas realized that she had brewed it herself. Not that he doubted her, but potions never were her strong suit - if she knew anything at all about it.  
“Oh, don’t worry, Farras helped me”, she said with a snicker. As if that would be a calming statement - that elf had tried to poison him twice and succeeded once.  
“It was he who came to the conclusion that the arrows were dipped in Concentrated Magebane, and since you…” Dirthara paused, swallowed and furrowed her brows. “Well, your body is, anyway… elven, I mean… and eh…”  
Solas cleared his throat to not begin to laugh. Her confusion really was amusing. “Yes, just like yours”, he pointed out and lifted the small bottle to his lips. It tasted bitter as he swallowed it down, but as soon as it reached his stomach he could feel the effect of it strum through his every limb with each heartbeat.  
“You will be low on mana for another couple of days…” Dirthara paused and squinted at him. “Wait, what did you say: ‘just like mine’? What are you talking about?”  
“Your spirit. I knew him in a different life.” Solas shrugged and got to his feet. He still felt weak and dizzy, so he was thankful when Dirthara followed and held him around his back.  
“Him?” she repeated as she lead Solas to the fire where both Iron Bull and Dorian were still fast asleep. A kettle of tea was brewing over the flames. “Did you love him?”  
Solas made a grimace at first, then he nodded. “Like a brother.” She hardly needed to know more than that, at least not yet.   
“So our spirits are related too?” Dirthara helped him sit down and took the kettle from the fire.  
“Yes, as I’ve said before: spirits follow bloodlines.” Solas gingerly grabbed the cup of tea that Dirthara offered him before she sat down by his side. She was silent for a moment as she stared into the flames.  
“Of all the elves that left Tevinter a thousand years ago, only about a hundred reached the Promised land and founded the Dales”, she finally said. “By now, all the Dalish elves must be related to us in one way or another.”  
Solas shook his head. “From what I understand, the leaders in your Dalish clans can find their heritage in the Emerald Knights. You do remember though, that the Knight’s Guardians were wolves?”  
Dirthara’s eyes widened as she turned her head. “Shapeshifters?”  
Solas smiled and nodded before he sipped from his cup of tea. Herbal, somewhat quickening, a spoonful of honey - chamomile. After he had swallowed, he decided to share another tiny nugget of truth with her:  
“Our forefathers came from the Silent Plains. The First Blight destroyed whatever remains that was there before; it is nothing but a desert now. However, it is rather curious, don’t you think, that the Silent Plains are populated by massive packs of surprisingly intelligent wolves?”  
Dirthara inhaled and from her facial expression Solas could almost read a sudden lust to go to one of the harshest areas in Thedas just to study wolves, but instead she surprised him with a new question. “Can you teach me?”  
“Teach you what?” Solas asked, doing whatever he could to keep his voice calm. He knew what she wanted from him, but to be fairly honest, that was a bit too close to home.  
“To shapeshift into a wolf - you say that it is my heritage, so it would almost be sacreligious to not know the spell.” And when she looked at him - straight at him just like that, with those beautiful eyes, he found it difficult to say no.  
“Why haven’t your father taught you?” he asked, but it was in a very tame tone of voice. He was already defeated.  
“Oh, he tried.” Dirthara snickered and looked away with her cheeks burning. “I had other interests.”  
Solas chuckled and nudged her in the side, because he understood exactly what it was she had found more interesting than her studies. “Now, who doesn’t like a little bit of mischief? I will teach you, if you invite me to your next nightly session of dancing under the full moon.”  
Dirthara grinned and nudged him back. “Is this just some cheap trick to get into my pants?”  
There was a flutter in Solas’ stomach and his heart skipped a beat. With his pulse drumming in his ears, he swallowed. This was beyond idiotic, they’d been through this dance before - why was he reacting like this? “On a contrary; I still just enjoy the thought of seeing your indomitable focus dominated.”  
“Yes, likewise.” She lifted one eyebrow and smiled. “You seem frisky enough - I guess the potion works, old man.”  
Solas hesitated and emptied his tea while he thought her words through. This conversation; she had just lured him, he went for the bait and now she had him on the hook. Clever girl, she got the information she wanted and then some. The wolves and the shapeshifters, that was what had interested her. He wondered if she already knew before she began asking questions. She did at least have a hunch, just needed it confirmed. Solas swallowed the last drop of his tea and placed the cup on one of the rocks by the fire. If he pretended that he didn’t get that, just continued this conversation, where would it lead?  
“Frisky.” Solas snorted. “You are still here, sitting by my side - would you expect anything else?”  
Dirthara turned her face and leaned closer. “You are talking about sexual attraction, which has nothing to do with our minds. You see, I find you very attractive, but my mind keeps telling me that this body isn’t yours. I still cannot decide if that is important or not.”  
“So the ability to shapeshift would make these conflicting thoughts easier to handle?” Solas couldn’t hide the wolfish grin that spread on his lips as Dirthara’s eyes first widened then turned into thin slits.  
“Solas, do you take me for a charlatan?” She shook her head and sighed. “I was talking about love.”  
Solas flinched. “Ah.”  
”Never mind.” Dirthara stood up from the floor with a wrinkle between her eyebrows. That wall was raised around her again, and he felt so cold.  
“Vhenan...”  
“You have some serious trust issues, Solas.” Dirthara turned her head and met his glance. “Someone must have hurt you badly, and I am truly sorry for you, but you will need to get over it.”

If one could see something positive in that exchange, one had to be a very optimistic character, which evidentially Solas wasn’t. What happened though, as Dirthara left him by the fire to do what she usually did when she got restless and frustrated - went out to kill something (well, that was at least what she did from Solas’ point of view; she returned later with a couple of rabbits, which she already had flayed) - was that he could sense that magic again. With his mind focused on nothing but her and that strange pulsating feeling of the potion working through his body, he completely forgot about it. Ancient, just a hint, like the salty taste of iron on the tongue that you got from something cooked in a cast iron pot, and he recognized it well enough to be curious. It was too similar to be a coincident, but what on Thdfas was it doing here?  
“Dorian?” Solas gave the sleeping mage a light push. “Hey, Dorian.”  
“I’m dead, leave me alone.” Dorian rolled over with a grunt.  
“The Mortalitasi would not agree”, Solas muttered and gave him another light push. “Get up, I need your help.”  
Dorian muttered a long curse over Solas’ mother’s grave, which Solas didn’t lament at all; as a matter of fact he might have joined in and cheered him on if he hadn’t been preoccupied with more important things.  
“Can you feel that magic?” Solas asked. His question had an interesting effect on the Vint, who froze at first and then was startled into motion.  
“You elves must have a skin covered with sensitive tentacles”, Dorian muttered after a short moment of silence, “I can’t feel a thing.”  
“You elves?” Solas grinned and shook his head. Of course; it had to be because of that innate connection to the Fade, not the many years of practice...   
“No? It must be those whiskers taking up some strange vibrations then; I can’t sense it.” Dorian rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Curious, I’ve never seen a bearded elf before.”  
“Apparently, you haven’t seen many elves.” Solas chuckled and lifted his hand to feel the stubble over his chin. He hadn’t been well enough to take the time to shave in a couple of days and it was starting to show. “The vibrations, I can feel them like a tingle on my skin. It’s an Elven artifact, I am absolutely certain of that, but it is inactive.”  
“Inactive?”, Dorian repeated with a snort and scratched his head. “Interesting, how you can sense inactive magic. Well then, let’s find this thing and see what it does. Nothing can hardly be worse than all this sand.”  
Dorian stood up slowly and stretched his back. “And for the record, I’ve seen an elf or two. One of them was Dalish, even!”  
“Yes, dancing naked under the full moon, high on Elfroot”, Solas muttered and stood up too.  
“Hm?” Dorian turned his head and met Solas’ glare. “What?”  
“Nothing.”  
Dorian chuckled and put an arm around Solas’ shoulders. “You know, it’s a full moon tonight and I have some Elfroot - what do you say?”  
Solas shook Dorian’s arm off and walked further into the ruins as he cleared his throat. “It’s this way.”  
“Oh, Solas, don’t bring around those negative waves”, Dorian taunted him and hurried after. “You simply do not know what you are missing until you have tried it.”  
“Have you ever tried being shot from a catapult during a siege?” Solas wondered with his ears turning warmer and warmer. “No? I’ve heard that it is a blast.”  
“There are always multiple ways into an impregnable fortress”, Dorian pointed out and offered Solas a sly grin and a wink.  
“You said something about a rift”, Solas said to change the subject. Dorian’s comments used to be annoying at best before, but now when he knew about the Vint’s certain tastes, he wasn’t sure if he was going to take the man serious or not. To keep it safe, it was better to discuss more neutral things.  
“Yes, it was right up there, in the main chamber.” Dorian pointed towards a fleet of stairs that led up half a level in front of them. “I’ve never had the time to really study demons up close before, it was really fascinating… Well, until Dirthara grabbed that staff in the inner sanctum and the spell was broken.” Dorian laughed nervously.  
Solas nodded slowly, even though he wasn’t really listening; the humming over his skin grew stronger. He walked up the stairs with Dorian behind, but in the rubble and sand all over the place it was difficult to distinguish anything out of the ordinary.  
“It should be here”, he muttered and spun around, “I can feel it…”  
“Do you know what it looks like?” Dorian wanted to know.  
“An orb, I presume”, Solas muttered, “Just like the somnaborium you mentioned, only less ....intricate.”  
“Ah. Like that one?” Dorian nodded towards a corner full of stone and sand, and Solas followed his gesture with his eyes. At first, he couldn’t see it, but when he did, it was as if his heart stopped for a second.  
“Yes, that’s it”, Solas whispered and moved forward slowly. To think, some of them were still intact! He wondered if the spell still worked, if the inscriptions had been scratched or… The orb and its base had fallen over, and it was with shaking hands that he let a levitation spell lift it up and place it on the floor. His mana went out fast and he was panting heavily when he finally walked up to the orb and put his hands on it. The tingling sensation in his fingers could have made him cry. One of his orbs, one of his spells!   
“How did this end up in here?” He wondered, “this is of Elven origin, and much older than this castle.”  
“Like everything else, I presume”, Dorian muttered. “I guess someone found it pretty.”  
Solas activated the orb with a flash of veil fire and it began to sing. “There. That should strengthen the Veil”, he murmured and studied his work. One of many, made by the tranquils that had worked by his side when the spirits had been freed, precise to the smallest detail. Now, it wasn’t one of his best, he had to admit that; he had learnt so much since then and...  
“How do you know that?” Dorian asked.  
Solas froze. Yes, how did he know that? He had to think fast. “Hm?”  
“That it will strengthen the Veil?” Dorian leaned forward and reached his hand out to touch the orb with a curious look on his face.  
“Don’t you read Ancient Elven?” Solas asked.  
Dorian chuckled and turned around. “No, of course not. Don’t make it sound like it’s common practice.”  
“Ah.” Solas felt every muscle in his body relax. “See those indentions there?” He pointed vaguely towards some symbols at the base of the artifact. A crude translation would be something along the lines with ‘Made in Arlathan’, but Dorian didn’t need to know that.  
“All right then.” Dorian furrowed his brows. “Well, if it keeps demons out, I guess it is all good.”  
Solas exhaled slowly and nodded. It wasn’t a lie, just some misleading questions, and he hoped that he wouldn’t have to answer to Dirthara about it later.

The next morning, Solas was well enough for a longer ride. The sun was rising over the mountains and the air was cool when they left the Still Ruins.  
“Strange really”, Dorian muttered as he gave the castle one last look over his shoulder.  
“What?” Dirthara rode up by his side.  
“That the University of Orlais haven’t sent someone out here to study these remains”, Dorian replied. “I mean, that guy - what was his name - the man who studied abyssal dragons. He seemed well funded, and abyssal dragons were thought to be extinct until we… well killed that one.”  
“You’ve been hunting dragons behind my back?” Iron Bull growled. “Not cool.”  
“I expect Orlais isn’t that interested in remains from the Imperial era”, Solas speculated, ignoring Bull’s outburst. “Some history is best forgotten.”  
Dirthara turned her head and gave him a long glare. “Yes, I agree.”

They reached the fort just before midday. Solas recognized the Tevinter architecture, which hie found rather curious. The Griffon Wing Keep was built long after Orlais broke free from the Imperium, logically it should have been inspired by the elven style that had been popular at the time. It hardly mattered that the Gray Wardens, who had built it, once had been founded in Tevinter; this was in a time when people wanted to express their freedom in every way possible. His musings about the old buildings came to an abrupt halt however, as he rode through the gates.  
“Dorian, my whiskers are tingling”, he said with a grin and scratched the stubble on his chin. “What would you say about another expedition?”  
Dorian looked around the courtyard with a bored grunt. Soldiers; everywhere there were soldiers in full armor; either practicing or standing guard. Solas could understand the Vint’s lack of interest.   
“I don’t see a good reason not to”, Dorian replied with a snicker.  
“Inquisitor! Dispatch for you!”  
One voice, echoing over the yard, was enough to silence all activity and turn all heads.

Dirthara  
A strange catatonic state presented itself when Dirthara ran out of tears. Hours flew by where she just sat in her room staring emptily in front of her, mind a blank space and limbs numb. When her stomach began to rumble with hunger, she hardly noticed; when the young elven maid entered her room to clean, Dirthara acknowledged the presence, but nothing more. Not until the woman approached her directly.  
“Lady Inquisitor?”  
Dirthara blinked and looked up, met her gaze, recognized her face but couldn’t quite place it. Light blue eyes, wide open, brows furrowed, short brown hair. Dirthara didn’t know what to make out of it. To be quite frank, she didn’t even recognize her room. Books in droves, a bunch of hair brushes on a desk covered in rolls of paper, clothes over the armrest of a chair, a bed - it was all just a mess.  
“You need to eat.” The elf crouched down in front of her and studied her face.  
Dirthara blinked again and inhaled deeply - it almost felt like she had forgotten how to breathe - then nodded. Sure, that was true. Everybody needed to eat.  
Something was wrong.   
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. The word felt distant, as if she didn’t know what it meant anymore. The woman disappeared, almost into thin air it felt. One second she was there, the next she was gone. Wrong. Dirthara repeated the word over and over in her head until it meant nothing at all.  
Shortly after - or it could have been hours later - Dorian sat there in front of her. Piercing, light brown eyes, his usual smirk turned into a frown. Something was wrong, she could see it in his face. Then, Dirthara noticed the maid again, just behind Dorian.  
“The Inquisitor has been sitting like this all day”, the elf said. All day. So, was it night? Day, night, day, night...   
“Vishante kaffas. A listless Inquisitor, what a glorious way to ruin the day.” Dorian grabbed Dirthara by the chin. “Can you hear me, dove?”  
Dirthara nodded. What a stupid question, of course she could - he was right there in front of her.  
“Good. good.” Dorian sighed, and the frown disappeared. “I hear you haven’t been eating.”  
Eating. No, she had tried that; everything felt like tasteless paper in her mouth. She noticed a plate on the floor in front of her, sturdy lumps of things on it. Peas? Yes, maybe it was Peas. World Peas, was that what it looked like? Astonishing, she had seen World Peas, and the Maker had nothing to do with it. Andraste should have known. Andraste. Andr-Aste. Andr’aste. Andruil’Enaste, Andruil’s Favor… Andruil, blood and force, your people pray to you. Grant that your eye may not fall upon us. Spare us the moment we become Your prey. Andraste, favored by the owl, Andraste the mother of the Halla. Spirits followed bloodlines, Tyrdda Bright-Axe, Avvar-Mother… What if he was right? A book with scribbles in the margin, his handwriting, and if all of it was true, then who was she? Fen’Harel, the trickster, the Dread Wolf in the flesh; a wolf by heritage and a killer by choice… And as the Owl circled over her, the darkness spread.  
“We are nothing but little blind mice”, Dirthara chuckled through the remains of her tears, “The ultimate end is the remedy.”  
Dorian and the elven servant girl exchanged a quick glance before their focus returned to Dirthara.  
“Now you may say I'm leaping to conclusions but you're not completely happy, are you?” Dorian spoke with a loud voice, as if she was old and a bit hard of hearing. Leaping, completely happy; no, she didn’t know the answer to that one, so she shook her head with an expectant smile.  
“She received a letter as we arrived yesterday and I haven’t seen her since”, Dorian murmured. “I assumed she was busy...”  
The letters forming soundless words, the words spoken with lipless mouths, the sentences are only crunching numbers… There was a pride in knowledge once, the songs that shaped the poetry, and every word would have its certain purpose. It was nothing but silence and then came song. The cacophony of voices, the dreams that didn’t want to be forgotten, a bear and a priest. Dirthara began to laugh.  
“A dream, a bear and a priest walked into a bar - whole hell broke loose. Now that’s a punchline.”  
Punch! Hah!  
“The letter is right here.” The servant held up a crumpled roll of paper and gave it to Dorian who eagerly rolled it up. His eyes swept back and forth over it and the further down the page he got the darker his expression got. Poor soul, he was a gentle spirit; a beautiful butterfly that wanted to fly free. Delicate wings crushed by the winds, and still he flew. That little paper made such damage - paper cuts on his spirit? He stood up from the floor too fast for her to notice, ran out the door with a couple of words over his shoulder. She blinked, inhaled, and sometime later, or maybe it was before, Dorian returned with the proud arrow, and he was crying. Eyes red and tears running down his cheeks as he kneeled in front of her, and when he pulled her into an embrace, his hands were shaking.  
“Oh, vhenan, my sweet sweet lily”, he whispered in her ear, and all she could think about was his cadence. “You were right, I should have known.”  
“The letters forming soundless words, the words spoken with lipless mouths, the sentences are only crunching numbers”, she repeated to herself, but she found it difficult to speak against his chest. The scent of soap and dry leaves, green grass and pine cones. A scent of life. “There was a pride in knowledge once, the songs that shaped the poetry, and every word would have its certain purpose”, she added and inhaled the fragrances that was him.   
“That was a long time ago, vhenan, when everything sang the same”, the arrow murmured, and Dirthara wondered if he was the arrow that Andruil had fired with her golden bow crafted from the gathering storm and the screams of the south wind. Her spear had been a fallen star, had it not? No, it was the heat and light from several stars - a dead sun? Not very creative.  
“Comforting, yet somewhat predictable. Boring, even”, Dirthara muttered. The arrow was slow, just as he should be, when he loosened his grip around her and held her on an arm’s length. Those piercing blue eyes, purple flames dancing in them as he studied her carefully.  
“What are you talking about, vhenan?”  
Dirthara chuckled. “The end of the world, of course! Because seriously; who doesn’t like a little bit of mischief?”  
His fingers dug deep into her shoulders, but she hardly noticed. His face, on the other hand, had taken a whiter shade of pale, as if he had seen a ghost. She clearly noticed that, and his skin made a stark contrast to his many red eyes. Then, the wolf turned his head and spoke to Dorian. “She needs to sleep. I have a recipe for a tea; feed it to her every hour…” 

Her dream was crushed; there was nothing left of it. Darkness and silence surrounded her, and the only comfort she had was that this was a promise. The peace at the end of the road. But it was so cold. Then came the thunder, the drums, the feet inevitably moving forward; the comfort in her darkness. It embraced her and held her close to its chest, the warmth radiating through her.  
“Dirthara”, he whispered and the pain in her exploded. It tore her apart, pulled her back together and tore her apart again, and through it all she screamed until her voice couldn’t carry her wordless song anymore.  
Solas. “Is this who you really are”, she wanted to know and crawled closer; a static flash of red that filled her with comfort when it held her close. He shared her pain and understood it. His pain was older, but he had lost them all too.  
“This is what we both really are”, he replied. “You are the shape you choose.”  
“My family defined me”, Dirthara whispered and thought of every face she could remember. It had been almost a year, she would need to visit the memories in the Fade to recall them all.  
“I have forgotten what my sister looks like”, Solas said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “It has been such a long, long time, and still I think of her with loss.”  
Dirthara sighed and felt the cold and darkness around her shrink, pour inward instead of stretching out. “Will it ever get easier?”  
Solas hesitated. “No. You will eventually grow accustomed to it, but it will never be easy.”  
“And the guilt?” She hardly dared to ask, because she expected that answer to be worse than the first.  
“It will gnaw at you until you decide to forget.”   
“Forget?” Dirthara felt how the thought of it made her flinch. “If I forget, how will I ever learn?”  
That was when the embrace intensified and Solas more or less pulled her inside of himself. So many memories rushed over her, so ancient that they couldn’t belong to him. Wars she had never read of, people dressed in ways she’d never seen, grand buildings reaching through the clouds falling to the ground and crushing everything in its pass.  
“That is exactly what the curse means, vhenan. May you learn.”


	42. Spiritual injuries

Solas  
“She was right”, he whispered to himself as he red the letter Dorian had put in his hands. “They were never capable… Fenedhis lasa, she was right.”  
He always knew; they were ignorant and lacked both the will and the creativity to take actions into their own hands, and that was why he despised them. Still, it was Her people, and maybe, if his hunch was correct, this might be the last words of his people too:

Da'len,  
I know not whether this will reach you. The Duke of Wycome is dead, and the soldiers of Wycome blame us. All the elves in the city have been killed, blamed for some plague that only strikes down humans. Now they hunt us as well.  
Most of the clan is already dead.  
Live well, da'len. You carry Clan Lavellan with you. They are coming for us.

The message ended abruptly, and Solas shook his head and read it again with his eyes tearing up to the extent that he hardly could see. When he reached the end, he was sobbing, angry with himself for not being able to keep it together. It had been easier in the Fade; mortality brought so many difficult emotions that he just couldn’t handle.  
“Crap.” He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was the remains of a forgotten era, the scraps that were left behind; it meant nothing! Then why…? Because it was her family, and it tore him up inside. Every face he couldn’t remember - his brother, his sister - damn it, his children, for the sake of… These were his sister’s children.  
Dorian cleared his throat. “Get yourself together, man.”  
Solas glared at him, as if the Vint was to blame for his emotional explosion. In a way, he was, it was he who put this piece of paper in his hands and… No, Dorian was a gentle soul. Maybe his ancestors were responsible for some of the things that… No, it was all on himself, actually.  
“Will it ever end? Will there ever be peace? Doesn’t people have better things to do with their lives than…” Solas crumpled the letter together into a hard ball in his hand and hissed as he threw it away.  
“Come.” Dorian didn’t meet his glance, just put an arm around his back and steered him up the stairs towards Dirthara’s chamber.  
“She’s too young, haven’t she been through enough?” Solas raved on, “First the Conclave, then Haven… It never ends, does it?”  
“Yes, well... “ Dorian paused and sighed. “She is a complete wreck, Solas.”  
Oh, the poor woman; of course she was! And they needed her to carry on, they needed her to do what he should have done in her stead…  
And Solas needed her, because without her, what was left? Nothing. She was his proof that there was something more, his reason to stick around for just a glimpse of what would... And of course she blamed herself, because she always did.   
It was his fault, all of this. It had been a foolish attempt to end all war in one single strike, because it was naïve to think that a new oppressor wouldn’t take the old one’s place. If he’d stayed awake, just to guide them… These poor, confused souls, why did he ever think that they could manage on their own? They were nothing like him. Nothing. The select few that chose to learn, to never forget, they became less revered by the moment and would be lost in time as they disappeared from people’s memories. And then it was Corypheus, just to add more to the burden. If he’d been patient, none of this would have happened. The explosion at the Conclave, the forming of the Inquisition, the Herald of Andraste…  
Dirthara. She wouldn’t scream her anger towards the heavens, because she would be in the Free Marches, leading her clan. She would have been safe, because he would never have crossed her path.  
“It’s my fault”, Solas blubbered, “It’s my bloody fault.”  
Dorian grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “Hey. Look at me.”  
Solas did as he’d been asked. Dorian looked just as sad as he himself felt, only more composed.  
“You can’t blame yourself for something done by some jerk-off almost half a world away, and you know it.” Dorian shook him as he spoke. “If that was the truth, I would have to take the blame for every single horrid deed my people has ever done, and I am not strong enough to be the conscience of an entire nation. Are you?”  
Solas shook his head slowly. He didn’t need to carry everybody else’s guilt on his shoulders; his own was a heavy enough load.   
“Butterfly effects”, he sniveled through the tears, upon which Dorian rolled his eyes and groaned.  
“It is a wonder that you even get out of bed in the morning.” He turned Solas around and pushed him forward up the rest of the stairs. “I used to think you were cold, Solas. Evidently, I was wrong.”

She sat on the floor, slumped down on her knees with a plate full of cold, untouched food in front of her, in a room that was nothing but necessities. A workplace and a bed, albeit, covered in the things he had gotten used to finding in her proximity after sharing room with her for such a long time. Hair brushes, ribbons, clothes, letters and her journal. And Dorian was right - she was a wreck. The face that turned up towards him as he entered the room was completely blank, as if she didn’t recognize him. When he kneeled on the floor to take her in his arms, there was no response whatsoever, and he was shaking so badly that he hardly could stay upright. And when she spoke in his cadence, he knew that she had changed and it made him shiver with every word.  
“There was a pride in knowledge once, the songs that shaped the poetry, and every word would have its certain purpose”, she whispered distant mindedly, and he could see that it wasn’t her anymore. She had aged, lost all hope.  
“That was a long time ago, vhenan, when everything sang the same”, he replied with a lump in his throat and stroked her back, hoping that she would find her way back to that spark that had kept her going before.  
“Comforting, yet somewhat predictable. Boring, even”, she muttered, which made Solas flinch and freeze.  
“What are you talking about?” he finally blurted out after studying her vacant face for a moment.  
“The end of the world, of course!” She said with the widest smile he’d ever seen. That was pretty much expected; the vacuum of absolute nothingness was after all the purest form of order; but what came next had him in shock:  
“Because seriously; who doesn’t like a little bit of mischief?”  
His words, used in the same sentence as her talk about the end of the world. As if all of this had been some sort of a stupid practical joke; as if none of it had meaning.  
She really was changing. Solas knew what needed to be done, already with the memory of that horrid taste of stale tea with honey on his tongue. He hadn’t touched the brew in particular for a very long time, and there were still teas he couldn’t stand the taste of because of that horrible memory. Swallowing down a belch that left a sour taste in his mouth, he turned to Dorian.  
“She needs to sleep. I have a recipe for a tea; feed it to her every hour. The instructions are in the lid of the jar, follow them precisely”, he ordered. “It’s in my personal luggage, labeled ‘Las Melava’. In the state she is now, she could stay awake for days, so I will need to pull her through from the Fade.”  
Dorian cursed and spun around on his heels to leave, but just as he was about the exit through the door, he stopped and gave Solas a long glare. “Somewhere you will have to draw a line between dreams and reality, Solas. There are other ways, and you know it.”  
“Would you like me to knock her on the head instead?” Solas wondered and glared back. “It is not her body that is failing her, it is her mind. If we don’t act quickly, she could be in this state for months. You know as well as I do that time is something we are don’t have.”  
Dorian muttered something under his breath, but marched away with his head held high. Solas could only imagine what was going on in that Vint’s head, but he was certain of one thing; being ordered around by some scruffy looking elf was not what Dorian had in mind when he joined the Inquisition.   
He turned to the maid. “Please, would you be so kind as to help me get her up on the bed?”

“Dirthara.” Her cadence was still the same; he could locate her easily; but since she wasn’t dreadming, it wasn’t enough. He would have to call for her, sing her own song, and to be perfectly honest, he didn’t know if she had one. It was a beat, not a melody, like waves crashing against the shores. She was hope to him, so he added the dripping of melting ice, and it caused a flutter. The spirits around him sensed it too and began to whisper of the winds that should blow through the trees and make the leaves rattle.  
“Not yet”, Solas whispered back; he wasn’t sure of what she would want in her little realm anymore; the clearing with the aravels and the fire would have to wait until she was ready for it. “Let her shape it when she arrives.”  
He thrummed her beat once more and this time she fell through. A pale light surrounded by darkness; that was all there was. Decay, stretching out in tendrils, making everything around her turn to dust. Solas realized that he would have to use force to reach her.   
“Dirthara”, he whispered again, with the hope that she would lower her barrier, but with little luck. It went against everything in him to gather the storms, let the thunder roll around him as the cracking flashes of electricity filled his very core. It was almost euphoric to let the Pride within take form, a confidence he hadn’t felt in centuries, which was why he needed to stay focused to not get carried away. She was Entropy in its purest form, the first of the two Schools of Matter, the opposing force of Creation; called the School of Negation in the Circles of Magi. This was the absolute form of order, whereas Solas was her opposite. The School of Creation, the second of the Schools of Matter, the balancing force and complement of Entropy. It was - just as life itself - a force of chaos. He shielded himself with life, let the sparks flow through his massive body of pitch black clouds. Like tentacles, the smoke rolled out from him in the shapes of vines, surrounded her and pulled her in. The vines withered and died as they reached her darkness, and it burned him badly, but he laughed and moved forward, certain of his own abilities. The Vines took the shape of whips covered in blazes of red light and he felt so powerful; in this state he could take the world. Nothing would stand in his way. He reeled her in, embraced her in himself, felt the fire in her core and reached for it. In a flash of bright white light, she exploded. She screamed, Solas screamed, and he was walking on a thin edge keeping himself collected enough to not follow the flow. He wanted to feel that power again, had missed it so badly, and it was difficult to stay away. He needed so much force to get through her barrier of death without getting burnt into a crisp, needed to…  
Something distant but familiar startled him out of this clash of emotions. A breath of a memory, nothing more, and yet it was enough to make him stop.  
Her cadence. It went against everything she was, and maybe that was why she was so different now. She wasn’t the end anymore, she promised new beginnings.  
“Dirthara”, he whispered again and pulled her closer. She was the harbinger of a new age, not the end of this one; he should have seen it earlier.  
“Is this who you really are?” Her thought just an echo of surprise as she collected herself again and let herself fall into his embrace. Her pain was deep and shone through every fibre of her being and he would never be able to mend it.   
She could of course decide to forget.  
“Forget?” There was a shiver in her astral projection, as if the thought alone was appalling. “If I forget, how will I ever learn?”  
Her words strummed every string in his heart and he couldn’t keep his focus. There had been a time when everything was easier in the Fade. This was not that day, and when he pulled her into himself he forgot to hide all the memories he had kept. The War of the Wolves, the destruction of his home, the last stand… Bare, like a newborn or fully open like the pages of a book, he gave her everything, something he would regret only days later.  
She wished to remember. If her spirit carried on long enough, it would become very wise.  
And then, her memories and regrets rushed into his mind with the force of a battering ram. A summoning circle, the cadence of ancient wisdom, a conversation repeating itself over and over. All at once; Dirth, Hamin, Clan Lavellan and all the voices of the memories in the deep that didn’t want to be forgotten. And in the background, an old woman’s broken voice reciting an ancient melody. At first he didn’t notice, but as it grew stronger, the words returned to him and made him shiver. In Uthenera.

Hahren na melana sahlin  
Emma ir abelas  
Souver'inan isala hamin  
Vhenan him dor'felas  
In uthenera na revas  
Vir sulahn'nehn  
Vir dirthera  
Vir samahl la numin  
Vir lath sa'vunin

Dirthara  
How many days had they spent like this? In and out of the Fade, lost in ancient history, back through time into the present. The slaves that rebelled; once a long time ago, then again and again and again further and further into the future, and every once in a while, a shout that would end the madness, but also be the beginning of another cycle. Glimpses of slaughter and ruin, so vivid that it had to be Solas’ own memories, even though she first had doubted; so many lifetimes of experiences that her own problems seemed feeble and insignificant in comparison. One might hope that these visions would make her see things from a different perspective, but the only thing she learned was that she was weak. Heart racing, fear making her breathe faster, panic forcing her burning blood to a freezing point. She understood that she needed to harden herself for whatever was to come, but how? It cut like knives in her, every little glimpse of a memory she had from her childhood when she again and again realized that everyone was gone. Her imagination steered her off into thoughts she couldn’t hinder; vivid images of the same scenes over and over before her eyes. Soldiers, rushing into the clearing, setting fire to the aravels, and as they burned, the sound of the hungry flames drowned the crashing of the waves against the rocky shore. Swords drawn, bloodthirsty berserks with nothing else on their mind but misdirected revenge, and even though she knew this was nothing but her own imagination playing tricks on her, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. It melted together with Fear in the Abyss, Hawke disappearing in the Fade, Dirth... She thought that she had moved on, but instead it had piled up inside, growing like a mushy dough, pouring over. She couldn’t collect her thoughts, couldn’t concentrate, and without Solas by her side, she never slept longer than a moment - her dreams became the nightmare from the realm of Fear of the Blight. Over and over again, she was swallowed whole by herself, until Solas found her and held her tight.  
But he was silent. More so than before.  
At first, she hardly noticed; she was to wrapped up in herself to sense anything beyond herself; but as she was pulled out of her shell, she realized that Solas wasn't just silent, he was distant. Sure, always there by her side, helping her as if he understood what she needed before she even knew herself; the perfect role model for a gentleman; but always silent or short in words. In a clear moment, she asked him about it, and all he said in reply was this:  
“Emotion clouds my judgement.”  
Like the flip of a coin, from one day to the other; he had shared a large piece of himself with her and then he pulled back.

Yes. Days, or at least she thought so. She had lost count, hardly knew when it was day or when it was night anyway. This room had become her safety and she feared what she would meet outside of it.   
“We need to get back to work”, she whispered, but her heart was racing and she clung on to Solas with such desperation. Her eyes were closed and arms locked around his neck as if she wouldn’t survive if he slipped out of her grasp. It was ridiculous, she thought to herself, that the thought of leaving the room filled her with so much fear - she wouldn’t die if she just left for something to eat.  
Solas snickered, for the first time in forever. Of course it had to do with her contradictory behaviour, she couldn’t see another reason for his sudden amusement.  
“You are lighting your candle in both ends. Rest for another day, and then we decide”, he said, and Dirthara knew from the sound of his voice what his facial expression would look like: that soft smile with his gaze lowered.   
“Courteously inaccessible”, she sighed and felt her heart slow down again as her muscles relaxed, and that filled her with guilt. She was weak. She had a purpose, and this wasn’t it. “Tomorrow then?”  
“Tomorrow then”, Solas agreed and lulled her back to sleep.

The Fade was empty around her, and in front of her Solas had taken shape again. Still the same face of Felassan, and behind the mask, this calm man who once had been a warrior - she couldn’t grasp it, so when he crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat, she wasn’t expecting strict orders.  
“Time to focus. Take form, sword in hand.”  
Dirthara hesitated. “Fencing?”  
“Just do what I ask. Focus.” Before her very eyes, and without making even the smallest gesture, Solas’ tattered clothes were covered in shining armor similar to the one her father wore. With a low rumble, a spirit blade grew out of his hand; blue with sparkles of electricity along the edge. It was a rather imposing image and Dirthara swallowed.  
“How would this make things better?” she wanted to know.  
“It’ll give your mind some peace.” He made a few practice swings with the blade, and even though she never saw him use it in a fight, he didn’t seem all that rusty in his sword arm. “Go on. I’m waiting.”  
“Alright…” Dirthara started with her feet and tried to remember every little detail of her astral mirage. It took a lot more effort to stay concentrated than she remembered, and she lost track of her thoughts half way through her knees. It almost made her cry from exhaustion and self pity. “Damn it.”  
“Don’t give up.” Solas didn’t even turn his face to look at her fiasco, he just kept practicing a cycle of moves that almost looked like an intricate dance. Somewhere in the back of her head, Dirthara recognized the stances, and it surprised her. She shouldn’t, because this was nothing like the disciplines of Dirth'ena enasalin, neither like the way of the Arcane Warrior. Her father’s teachings had been simple in comparison, and Lady Enchanter Vivienne’s fighting style was more direct and savage, not this elegant.  
“Don’t give up?” Dirthara repeated, “Easy for you to say…”  
To learn the knowledge of a shapeshifter, you do need a shape to begin with, Dirthara”, Solas muttered in reply. “Sparring will help you regain some focus.”  
There was a flutter of expectation in Dirthara’s stomach. “So you are willing to teach me?”  
Solas stopped and turned around to look at her. He shook his head and snickered when he studied the feet and calves that she had managed to give form. “Yes, but from the looks of it you will only learn the anatomy of a pair of hind legs. The lower part.”  
“Don’t laugh at me.” Dirthara felt how all energy left her. She had tried before and never got the hang of it, what was the use? And why was this so important all of a sudden anyway; it wasn’t like she had a need for that spell right now, did she?  
The little smile on Solas’ face disappeared, and if it hadn’t been for that glint of purple in his eyes, she would have called his expression emotionless. “Ir abelas, da’len, mala suledin nadas. Anger is your strength, so use it to fight back.”  
“To what use?” The desperation shone through in her voice, even though she tried to stay composed. Anger. She knew what it would do to her and if the realm of Fear couldn’t remind her of what her biggest fear was, then nothing could.  
Solas sighed and lowered his gaze. “If you don’t, there will be nothing left to save.”  
“And what was it you said?” Dirthara growled in affect, “Emotion clouds your judgement? Is it really that intelligent to let something as unpredictable as anger be the fuel?”  
“In your case, the fate of the world rests on your shoulders.” Solas returned to his practice stances, which became more and more confident as he went. “Yes, anger is an unpredictable force, but it is a force to be reckoned with. You can’t use all your energy to quench that fire when you need it to move forward.”  
“I can’t control it, Solas!” Dirthara screamed with her pulse pounding louder and louder, making that little piece of self-image that she had managed to gather shiver. “Why won’t you listen?”  
“So let go.” Solas paused his practice just to shudder. “Give it the shape of a blade and come at me.”  
Fuck it. If that was what he wanted, that was what he was getting. She focused on her feet again, and this time with the ferocity of a varghest. Legs, covered in silverite, blue leather and chainmail. Chest covered in a sturdy breastplate, arms dressed in pauldrons, her face… It wasn’t important, a helmet on a stick figure and nothing more before she summoned her blade. Stupid elf, he would get hurt, but it would be his own damn fault. She ran forward and swung her blade at him, but before the impact Solas turned and fenced her blow.  
“Fight like if your life depended on it”, he taunted with a wry grin and moved away with a very irritating swagger. “It’s your life or your opponent’s.”  
That was enough to have her furious, rushing forward again with a growl and her spirit blade lifted. “Fight me then, you bastard!”  
Solas parried again, with remarkable ease. “No.”  
“So what’s the point of all this then, huh?” Dirthara swung her blade at him again and it clashed with his.  
“Because for now, it wouldn’t be fair. You are not channeling your anger and you are not listening to the spirits around you.” He sauntered away to the side, and Dirthara noticed how comfortable he seemed in this role. The armor and the blade gave him a confidence she’d never seen before. She would need to concentrate, he was obviously a competent adversary. Anger, pouring out to her arms as she found a stance that gave her balance, eyes and ears open. Spirits whispering, telling her to swing from below, to reach within for guidance.  
Reach within? Dirthara furrowed her brows in confusion, but tried to find her own core, the light within the darkness.  
Let it fill you, let it pour out through your veins, the memories knows.  
So she dove deeper and deeper within herself and pulled herself out to the surface, realized when she opened her mouth to speak that she had found something much older than herself.  
“Keep your secrets to yourself, my friend; you always did.”  
As if through a dream she heard herself snicker when Solas turned his head to give her a concerned look. The anger burned in her chest and ran in her blood like fire when she leaped to attack again; a fire Falon’Din hadn’t seen in ages. Her body didn’t have the muscle memory, it wasn’t as strong as his had been, but flexible. She followed through a wide spin, easily as if she’d been light as a feather. The wolf parried and skipped away, made a flip and landed on his feet.  
Falon’Din? The questions popped up like mushrooms in her head; it would break her focus if she gave that too much thought. How was that even possible though?  
“You have to do better than that”, the wolf muttered, but he had lost some of his confidence. Of course; he wasn’t a warrior anymore, just a scholar.  
“Is it just you, or does Mythal still keep you in a leash?” Falon’Din jeered back. It was both strangely familiar and very awkward to hear his words spoken with the girl’s voice; still, after all these years… And weird to hear words she didn’t know the meaning of spoken through her own mouth.   
He attacked again, was just about to swing his blade with all his might against the wolf’s head when a strange force pulled him back. The confusion must have shown in her face, or maybe the spirits sang of it; Solas began to laugh.  
“Just like you are tethered by this little fennec”, he asked and strolled away again. “No, I follow my own path.”  
His own path, his own path… Falon’Din felt his will pulled down into the pits of memories again. “No!” he shouted from the bottom of his lungs and tried to break free, but he sank deeper and deeper. Around him, the warmth of her kept him sated in the darkness, but this had been a glimpse of freedom.  
“I don’t want to fight you, Solas”, Dirthara growled and threw the sword away with her heart pounding and chest heaving. Somewhere inside her she heard the protests; that this was what life and death was all about. She fell down to her knees and pulled the helmet off her head. “I will not fight you.”  
Solas sank down beside her. “That memory is what you once was. It doesn’t have to be like that again.”  
Dirthara nodded slowly, but couldn’t help but feeling slightly confused. “Falon’Din?”  
“Just a shard”, Solas replied calmly.  
“So…” Dirthara swallowed and rubbed her eyes. “Damn it, you are giving me a headache. I need to think this through.”  
“You don’t have much time, Dirthara.” Solas reached for her hand and pressed it. “Just remember that you are much stronger than you think.”


	43. Into the Hidden Oasis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, lots of things going on. Studying at Uni, which means I have to write all kinds of other things ;)

Solas  
Dirthara had been pale - paler than usual - when they left Griffon Wing Keep a week later. She wasn’t far from another nervous breakdown, every step forward a fight against her panic attacks. Back on the horse and on their way towards the meeting point in the Forbidden Oasis, she slowly regained some of her color, but it was only her persistence that kept her together.  
“What can we do to share the burden?” Dorian murmured with a concerned glance ahead where Dirthara rode side by side with Iron bull.  
“Give her time to rest”, Solas replied calmly, which made Dorian scowl.  
“Time well spent, and then she dies during one of her famous suicide missions.”  
Solas flinched, had to take a couple of deep breaths. Emotions clouded his logic, he needed to stay calm. If she died… The thought of losing her was enough to tear his heart to shreds. “So tell her to delegate. She might listen to you, she questions everything I tell her”, he murmured hoarsely and swallowed.  
“With reason, my friend”, Dorian replied with a snort. “She listens to you, because when Solas talks, that’s what one does, but one man cannot know that much.”  
Yes, maybe he was right. The role he played; the apostate from the wilds, the distinguished hobo; it wasn’t very convincing. They all questioned him, his purpose - and yet they had become his friends. Under false premises? No, this was who he was, without the layers of polished power. The naked truth.  
“I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment or not”, Solas said with a wry grin.  
The group continued riding under silence, except for the occasional joke delivered by Dorian. Solas understood his motive and laughed along while glancing at Dirthara who really didn’t seem to listen. Brows furrowed in stubborn concentration, eyes pinned into the distance ahead. Solas’ first thought was to cradle her in his arms and promise her that he would do everything in his power to keep her safe, but he restrained himself. His heart ached for her and he found it difficult to avert his gaze. That beautiful woman whom he’d give everything he had just to stay by her side. For him, that would be enough, she was all he needed. It filled him with a great sadness that he wasn’t able to grant her that peace, and even more, that she kept him on a distance. How did Cole manage to keep his emotions in check?

In the afternoon they saw the first signs of Inquisition forces. Leliana’s scouts, bird cages with her crows, tents and the sound of hushed conversations around the fires where the people off duty took their rest. Scout Harding was the first to greet them as they skipped down from the horse backs in the outskirts of the camp. Dirthara and the dwarf began discussing their choices straight away, and as Solas removed the saddlebags from his horse, he could hear most parts of the conversation.  
“I wouldn’t say that they have reached their goal, no, but the Venatori are streaming into the oasis”, scout Harding replied to Dirthara’s question about the activities in the area. “If you want to reach there before they open that temple, you will have to hurry.”  
“Do they have enough keystones for that?” Dirthara wanted to know, and Solas could see on her furrowed brows and lifted shoulders that she was genuinely concerned. He was too; were they too late, had they lost their momentum?  
“My scouts tell me that a shipment of mining equipment have been delivered”, Harding stated with a meaning frown, “Whatever is in there, they want it badly enough to destroy an ancient ruin.”  
Solas cleared his throat. “So they haven’t gotten inside yet, is that what you’re saying?”  
Scout Harding nodded, upon which Dirthara’s shoulders sank and she let out a deep breath.  
“Well then.” Dorian got back up on the horseback. “Iron Bull and I ride ahead to deal with the Venatori; you two stay here.”  
“That is out of the question”, Dirthara protested, but with such a weak voice that both Dorian and Iron Bull just snickered and left. For a short moment she looked like that little girl again, the child who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; powerless and small; and Solas felt sorry for her. He shouldn’t; not any more. Feelings made him react in ways he found illogical, and she was not someone to pity.  
“Come, let us see if we can find a pattern in this locking mechanism while they are gone”, Solas suggested and put an arm around her shoulders. “With this many stones, it must be a very complicated lock.”  
Dirthara followed without a word, and Solas gave her a quick glance. In all honesty, he should make sure she got some sleep instead, but he doubted that he would succeed. Hopefully, this puzzle would tire her.

When Dorian and Iron Bull returned to camp later that evening, Solas sat by the fire with a cup of tea in his hands. The sun was setting on the other side of the desert and he had the perfect vantage point for a spectacular view. He almost wished that he had brought some paint and an easel, the color spectrum was remarkable and he found it hard to breathe in the presence of such beauty. The details of the sunlight reflecting from the bare mountain sides made a stark contrast against the pink and orange background and he wondered how he could picture that in a realistic way.   
“The Vints won’t bother us for a couple of days”, Iron Bull muttered as he sat down by the fire. “I’m starving, is there anything to eat?”  
“There’s a stew in the pot over there”, Solas murmured and made a vague gesture towards the large kettle hanging beside the fire. “Did you reach the ruins?”  
“Yes.” Dorian, who had disappeared into his tent for a short errand, returned with a wine bottle in his hand and sat down. He opened it with almost ceremonial carefulness and had a sip. “It doesn’t look like much, to be honest. Hidden within the mountain behind a locked door. I do believe you were right in your assumption that what we have is not a temple but a prison.”  
“Oh?” Solas turned his head and his eyes locked with Dorian’s. “What makes you say that?”  
“It is not a treasure they are after”, Dorian replied calmly and had another taste from his bottle. “They say it is an immerse power locked away behind those doors, but it doesn’t seem to be in the form of an artifact.”  
Beside him, Iron Bull reached for one of the bowls and poured himself some stew. “Ooh, rabbit. As if we haven’t had enough of that”, he muttered to himself.  
“It could be a powerful staff or an armor”, Solas thought aloud and drank from his cup of tea. “It has to be something; Dirthara and I realized that it has to be more than one door.”  
Dorian shook his head. “They never mentioned anything like that.”  
“Are you certain that they know what t is they’re looking for?” Iron Bull put a spoonful of the stew into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I mean, they are just Corey’s agents, what makes you think they would know what it is he wants?”  
“Good point.” Dorian fell silent and stared into the fire.  
“They know what they are looking for, otherwise they cannot bring it back from the oasis”, Solas hummed. They seemed a bit too eager to get inside - they had to know - so what was it? Some kind of a power… “We hadn’t heard of the Still Ruins until you found it, and the power hidden within that was a staff. There could be some sort of an artifact in this place too, but the message… ‘Emma solas him var din'an. Tel garas solasan. Melana en athim las enaste’, it is a warning.”  
When Solas didn’t get a response, he realized that they didn’t understand a word he was saying. Spending this much time with Dirthara had made him disregard the fact that the elven language was mostly forgotten. “‘Arrogance became our end. Come not to a prideful place. Now let humility grant favor’”, he translated.  
“Strange.” Dorian furrowed his brows. “Something is locked away behind several doors, and the Venatori seems to know what it is, yet we haven’t heard a single rumor.”  
“Not even in the Fade”, Solas agreed. “At first, I believed that the locks were manufactured by dwarves, since I can’t hear a single whisper of this, but the message is written in the elven language, so it must be elves made tranquil.”  
“What a horrible thought.” Dorian shuddered. “Elves are so deeply connected to the Fade, that making them tranquil must be close to killing them.”  
Solas didn’t answer. Tranquility could have been chosen by the elves themselves to avoid the gaze of the enemy, if this ruin was old enough. The silence was a refuge, but still something he’d never force upon a mortal soul.  
And those hideous vallaslin, the pale blue blood writings that bound them to this realm, a symbol for an eternity in servitude… Which was worse; to never be able to act upon your own will, to not be able to choose your own shape and form or to be cut off from the Fade? The hivemind of the slaves wasn’t much different from the way the dwarves had been under the titans.  
“You’re awfully silent.” Dorian’s words shook Solas out of his thoughts. He turned his head and cleared his throat.  
“Yes, well, I am trying to figure out what we could expect to discover in that place, I find it frustrating to not be able to see any answers in the Fade.” Solas emptied his cup of tea and stood up from the fire. “Now, if you excuse me, gentlemen, I have a patient to take care of.”

 

Dirthara  
Continuing through the oasis on foot felt strangely soothing. It was as if the connection to the earth under her feet made it easier to clear her mind, as if every step forward along the paths calmed her. The morning was cool and the humid air under the trees was a blessing compared to the desert around them. Water and shadow, it had never felt more valuable before, and she just loved the sound of the waterfall that echoed through the entire oasis. It wasn’t like the huge masses of water in the ocean, not as foreboding, but rather something hopeful and exuberant. It was easier to reach towards the brighter thoughts with that kind of optimism around her, and her almost meditative state was a colorful one. Dirthara was however startled out of her serene state and could have crawled out of her own skin when a rift appeared in front of them. She froze on the path, where Dorian, Iron Bull and Solas rushed ahead; stared at the scene before her with a fear that she just couldn’t describe. The three men had dropped the saddle bags they had been carrying; the bags containing the shards. Their goal, it felt so far away. Dirthara was well aware of the fact that a rift was something she had easily overcome before, and still it felt like she was about to die just from standing in its presence; the door to Solasan Temple felt almost unachievable. With her pulse thrumming in her ears and the taste of metal filling her mouth she stared at the green light through which a rage demon had crawled out. It was massive and the only thing Dirthara could think of was how powerless she was in its presence. Fire. She only had fire to fight it, where ice would have been the better solution. Bull’s large hammer fell right through it’s fiery body without making much damage and Dorian was just like herself. Whatever spell he used against this demon, it hardly made any difference.  
“Remember what we’ve practiced, Dirthara!” Solas shouted over his shoulder as he threw a barrier over Iron Bull, “Summon your spirit blade!”  
Hesitantly she did what he’d said, but it didn’t feel like it was herself doing it. Numb, disconnected from herself and with a blank mind she moved forward. It was like watching herself through the eyes of somebody else, and everything felt so slow. Maybe she had gotten used to the way the Fade worked after all this practice with Solas, maybe it was some strange state of shock. Forcing herself forward with all the power she could muster and it felt like running through syrup. She struggled harder than ever before just to take that one single step, the material world pressing in on her from all sides, heart pounding hard in her chest and the fear making her mouth dry. There had been a rush connected to these fights before; now there was nothing but this pressure, and she hadn’t even started yet. It was hard to breathe, the air was thick and every slash with her blade would be a slow and fruitless dance.  
Ah. A slow dance. She had never been much of a dancer, but the stances Solas had taught her - there was a certain beat to it. His beat. She needed to make it hers, find a bond with it. Slowly she lifted the spirit blade over her shoulder and crouched down. Reached within, found her core. That light which tore the darkness into pieces.  
“One, two, three, four.” It was easier when keeping the beat; the flow of her blade as she tried to let the first stance seamlessly turn into the second in one swift motion, made her heart slow down to a pace that made it easier for her to see the world around her, to focus. She felt the light fill her veins.   
“Five, six, seven, eight.” The second stance became the third and the fourth. Before her, Solas’ spells of ice and storm; Dorian with his element of fire, just like herself. They kept their distance, while Iron Bull fiercely pushed forward. Dirthara took a deep breath and reached deeper into her center. He, the ancient memory from what she had been in another life, wasn’t as strong here; easier to control. She was a messenger of death, the harbinger of the ultimate truth. This was who she was. The brightness was blinding, almost like looking straight at the sun, the shadows were the soothing sanctuary, but the light was the source of her energy. It filled her, almost to the point where she thought she might explode.  
With a roar she rushed ahead with her blade lifted, became the storm of fire and darkness that she had avoided for her entire life. That rush of adrenaline mixed with a rage that fueled her and made movement easy, and she reached Iron Bull’s side with a velocity that almost felt unnatural. Everything around her seemed slower as she spun around in the air and slashed with her blade at the first enemy that got in her way; the rage demon. Fight fire with fire; her blade could cut through anything. She landed on her feet and flipped to the flank as Iron Bull lifted his massive hammer, let another deep cut land on the massive body of fire. Dirthara could hear Bull shout something, but couldn’t make out what, kept counting to herself to keep her focus. It was a balancing act, using just enough force. Distancing herself to all of this made it easier and soon enough she had reached a meditative state where she didn’t have to think before she acted. Something else steered her hand, and she just had to observe. Her muscles were burning like fire, but as the rage demon fell, she moved on to the next. This weak body; she had lost a lot of strength in the last couple of weeks. Not that she was built for close up melee, Solas had been right about that too. This became more obvious when she had closed the rift and fell to the ground panting from exhaustion.  
“Well done, Vehnan.”   
Dirthara felt Solas’ hand on her shoulder, a reassuring rub on her back and knew even though she had closed her eyes that he had kneeled by her side. “Well done.”  
His words would usually have filled her with warmth, but for now she was too tense to do anything but keeping her breath steady. Every ounce of her last energy needed to regain full control. Sure, she had managed to do what she had practiced to do, but right now, when the worst had passed, she could either cry or throw up. Shivering like an autumn leaf in the first salty storms by the sea, she slowly got back on her feet. This wasn’t over yet, she had to carry on.  
Solas’ hand remained on her back as he steadied her. “Take all the time you need”, he murmured, “you are not alone.”  
Those words were meant to be reassuring, but they had the opposite effect on her. Showing weakness? Like this? She wasn’t some fragile little princess in need of a knight in shining armor; she was the Inquisitor, their face towards the masses. With a deep breath she straightened her back and opened her eyes. Dorian and Iron Bull studied her scrutinously, or at least that was her impression. Would she ever be enough?  
“Let’s get moving”, she replied hoarsely and shook Solas’ hand off her back, “we’re losing time.”

They didn’t meet much opposition on their way through the large oasis, not until they climbed up a hill at the edge of the mountainside. With every step forward, they slipped backwards in the sand, and they reached the edge of the hill panting. Compared to the cold climate in the Frostbacks, the air in the oasis was both dry and hot and the sweat that was pouring under her armor made Dirthara realize that she was losing a lot of water. She was just about to pause for a sip of water from her waterskin, when Dorian tapped her shoulder.  
“Venatori.” Dorian grabbed his staff from his back with the sweat pouring down over his brow. “I thought we got rid of them all yesterday.”  
“They are like mushrooms”, Iron Bull muttered in response as he reached for his hammer. “The slightest remain and they pop up from nowhere.”  
Five men, of which two were mages, and behind them a gate. This had to be it. Dirthara’s nerves made her freeze up again, but it was easier to find her peace this time. It seemed to have something to do with her breathing; the moment she began counting and as soon as the spirit blade was in her hands, she could dive into herself. The first four stances had become something of a ritual and yet again it felt like the world around her slowed down. At first, it was confusing - was it supposed to be like this every time? Soon enough, however, she realized that it was to her advantage. It gave her time to listen, take in the scene and really feel what would be the best response. Dorian placed one of his horror spells over the soldiers that were running towards Iron Bull, Solas dropped a storm of ice surrounding the mages and Iron Bull ran forward with a shout that made the blood freeze in Dirthara’s veins. The mages, she needed to take them out first; Dorian and Iron Bull could handle the warriors on their own. Fighting her way through the thick syrup that the world became around her, she came to the conclusion that her own movement must seem hypersonic in the eyes of the beholder. The venatori mages shrunk back at her approach, and her former anxiety fell off her shoulders. Her blade was quick and merciless, a severed head flew in slow motion over her shoulder and blood splattered around her as if the fallen bodies had been fountains. She turned around, saw an archer on top of a rock aiming for Dorian, who was busy fending off one of the soldiers that had gone past Iron Bull. A Fade Step across their playing field, right through the group of steel clad soldiers while thinking of the harsh winter storms of the Frostback Mountains.  
“Archers!” she shouted as she passed Solas, and his reaction was remarkably quick. A wall of ice rose up in the desert sand between them and the approaching bowmen. Her mind was calm, not clouded by adrenaline, and she felt in control when she summoned iron oxide from the sand around her, aluminum from deep under the mountain and set the archers ablaze with a wildfire as she hurried towards them with her blade lifted. She could hear their screams as their bodies melted away into pools of burning flesh.  
The fight was over in a sudden and rather anticlimactic manner that had Dirthara standing with a readied spell in one hand and the blade hanging from the other a moment longer than needed. Iron Bull shook her out of her confusion.  
“Hey, Boss. You did that thing again.”  
Dirthara let the spell return into her hand and the blade disappear into thin air. “What?”  
“That maniacal laughter.” Iron Bull chuckled. “You can be rather scary sometimes, you know.”  
“Yes. Don’t dare to cross me.” Dirthara lifted her head, met his gaze and winked, upon which both Dorian and Solas began to laugh.  
“The bitch is back.” Dorian hummed. “Thank the Maker, she’s back.”  
“Don’t thank the Maker.” Dirthara skipped down from the cliff she’d been standing on and continued the rest of the way up the hill towards the entrance to the temple. “Thank Solas.”  
“Yes, well…” Solas cleared his throat and Dirthara just knew that his ears had turned red. “The key stones; let us see if we figured the mechanism out, shall we?”  
The three men followed in Dirthara’s footsteps and dropped the saddlebags by her feet when they all stopped in front of the large keyhole shaped gate.  
“This is an odd temple. I wonder if others like it exist or if this is the only one of its kind. Beautifully crafted, however”, Solas murmured and lifted his hand to touch the stone. Look at this, it is carved out of the rock!”  
“Yes, the architecture is elven, no doubt”, Dorian replied, but inhaled and paused as if there was something else he was thinking of but kept to himself. Dirthara turned her head and studied their faces. Iron Bull seemed distracted by something else, kept his focus back along the path where they had arrived, but Dorian was scratching his chin and looked rather confused. Solas’ brows were furrowed and his tight lipped silence only made Dirthara even more curious. If he found the architecture this intriguing, why did she get the feeling that he knew this place? Her first impression only solidified when Solas opened his mouth to speak.  
”We must approach this with caution.” He turned his head and met Dirthara’s gaze. “This door… there is a magical barrier, ancient elven magic.”  
Dirthara hesitated; that nervous flutter, shorter breaths and pounding heart returned. If Solas was concerned, what could they expect?  
She swallowed. “What is it?”   
“Probably nothing.” A quick smile brushed over his face as he shook his head. “Please, just be careful.”  
“Maybe I should open it”, Iron Bull suggested and reached for his hammer over his shoulder.  
Solas raised his hand and shook his head. “No, something tells me that this barrier is…” He hesitated and gave Dirthara a quick glance. “I sense the same kind of magic in this door as the one you have in your mark.”  
Dirthara felt that nervous flutter in her stomach again, lifted her hand and looked down at that green glowing mark. “But this temple is ancient”, she whispered, “how is that even possible?”  
“The spell behind that mark on your hand is older than Corypheus”, Solas replied calmly, and he seemed both pleased that she chose to ask and slightly frustrated with her question. “It is bound to the orb he carries.”  
“Oh, right.” Dirthara looked away and took a deep breath. “Let’s do this then.”   
With her heart pounding and hands shaking, she picked the stones, one by one, from the saddlebag beside her and put them into the slots in the door. Slowly and methodically, a short pause after every time a crystal found its place; expectantly, not certain if something would happen. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned her head to meet Solas’ glance, he replied with a quick smile but jaws clenched.  
“It appears we were right to assume that these shards were connected in certain patterns”, he hummed, and Dirthara couldn’t help but feel slightly less bothered with this entire situation when he stayed this close behind her. She took a deep breath, put the last shard in the lock and were about to jump out of her own skin with surprise when the crystals began to glow with an inner light of their own.   
They waited.  
Nothing happened. Dirthara didn’t realize that she had held her breath. She exhaled and lifted her hand to her shoulder to give Solas’ hand a light squeeze. His fingers were warm and his thumb brushed over her knuckles before she let him go and took a step forward to push the gates open.  
She didn’t have to use much force, just a light push, and when she did everything happened at once. The sound of heavy stone grinding against stone, ancient dust and sand scattering over the ground with an echoing whisper as the massive doors first cracked open; the rumble that followed when the massive gates let more and more light in on a stone floor that hadn’t seen the sun for centuries. A strange vibration in the air, flashes of light piercing her with a crackle, almost electric. She stumbled backwards with a yelp of surprise and tumbled into Solas’ arms. It all stopped abruptly and the silent that followed was expectant with a hint of fear.  
“What happened?” Dorian rushed forward to investigate the now open door. The darkness inside was compact and the air that had been locked inside smelled of damp earth.  
“I don’t know…” Dirthara cleared her throat and shook her head, “It must have been a trap or something.”  
“Are you hurt in any way?” Solas turned her around in his embrace, cupped her chin in his hand and studied her face scrutinously. “It looked like beams of light and it…”  
“No, Solas, I’m not hurt.” Dirthara furrowed her brows in confusion. “It felt… weird, but…”  
His grasp around her chin softened, as his gaze and worried facial expression. A light caress of her cheek as he exhaled and his smile returned. “Good. Good.”  
“We cannot risk to go any further.” Dorian stepped back outside. “If you know something that we don’t, you’d better share it with us now, Solas.”  
Solas broke Dirthara’s gaze and looked at Dorian over her shoulder. “I believe I have read about something similar. We thought the shards were the keys, but they are in fact parts in a lock. The key is Dirthara… Well, the mark on her hand, at least.”  
Dirthara got out of Solas’ grasp with a shiver. “What would have happened if the mark had been wrong, Solas?”  
Where Solas paused, Dorian filled in. “The trap would have been triggered. We should return back to camp, this is not worth the risk.”  
“Or we could examine our dear Inquisitor to see what effects this have had on her”, Solas suggested. “If she was indeed hurt, I agree with you wholeheartedly, Dorian, but if not… Wouldn’t you want to know what the Venatori are seeking?”  
Dorian moved forward and stopped with his face only inches away from Solas’ with his brows furrowed. “My word, are you not a bit too curious about this ruin. If the mark had been in your hand I wouldn’t have hesitated a moment, but it is Dirthara you are putting in danger.”  
Solas didn’t move and met Dorian’s gnashed teeth with a snarl. “Without her I’m not really living, Pavus…” He gasped and took a step backwards before he continued, now with a surprised wrinkle between his eyebrows. “I… I would never forgive myself if I caused her any harm.”  
His words made Dirthara’s heart skip a beat. Yes, she should have been aware, but it cut like knives in her and she bled for him. It was with his spirit she had connected, not with some hedge mage with a voice that could melt the ice on the tops of the Frostbacks. He was still the same man she had fallen in love with and she wasn’t treating him fairly.


End file.
